


Far Beyond a Promise Kept

by oliversnape



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adoption, Gen, Guardian-Ward Relationship, Mentors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-27
Updated: 2013-02-13
Packaged: 2017-11-17 04:06:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 135,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/547431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oliversnape/pseuds/oliversnape
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snape never wanted anyone to know of his promise to Dumbledore, but has realised that he can protect Potter much better by taking a less passive role in the boy's training. Actually liking Harry Potter has never been part of his plan. mentor/guardian.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again! As an FYI: there won't be any CP, for those who avoid those fics, and there won't be character bashing either. Chapters will be updated once a week/week and a half, because I'd rather not sacrifice quality for time restraints. I'll post on my profile if there's an unexpected delay. Hope you enjoy it! - oh, and I've no idea how long this will be, but definitely more than a few chapters.

Albus Dumbledore enjoyed frequenting little Muggle cafes and pubs around the country during the summer. It was his way of interacting with Muggles, keeping up to date with the social and political environment of England, and trying to keep in touch with the world his Muggle-born students came from.

Severus Snape was not fond of meeting the Headmaster in such pubs, not because he had a dislike of Muggles, but because Dumbledore, for his open embracement of Muggle life, had never quite grasped the fashion trends and tended to stick out like a mad man. Even when sitting in the back of this particular pub, Snape noted that the Headmaster had been given a wide berth.

“Good evening, Severus,” Dumbledore greeted, holding up his mug. His dark purple pantsuit was thankfully not velvet, but it was slightly reflective and the lapels of it were lined with some sort of cheap fake jewels.

“Headmaster,” Snape returned, pulling his own chair out. In his dark trousers and blue striped dress shirt he was likely not even noticed by most Muggles, but then, Snape had spent his entire childhood standing out and took great care not to do so as an adult.

“Albus, my boy. I am beginning to suspect that you enjoy making me remind you,” Dumbledore said, closing the book he'd been taking notes in. He was wearing several different rings on his hands, and Snape knew they just added to the eccentric look.

“Merely a sign of respect,” Snape replied. His over coat was placed on one of the empty chairs at the table and Snape didn't bother with a drying charm. With the amount of rain pouring down outside, it would be highly suspicious if his coat dried itself in such a short period of time.

“You are looking well, Severus. I dare say you've spent more than a few days outdoors?” Dumbledore asked, in the slightly teasing tone that only he could get away with.

Snape glanced at the window, where the storm outside was battering anything and everything it could.

“I have been about the countryside, yes,” Snape vaguely answered. His plan for the summer, ever since a scrawny preteen had returned bloodied and half-dead from the Chamber of Secrets, had been to search the old haunts of England for signs of Voldemort. He’d not shared the plan with the Headmaster though, and had no immediate intention to.

“Have you made your decision regarding the Defence Against the Dark Arts post?” Snape asked, cutting to the crux of their meeting.

“I have,” Dumbledore said, and Snape could tell by the soft tone of his employer's voice that he wouldn't like the answer. He fought the urge to cross his arms, like a petulant teenager.

“I have taken your rather strong suggestions into consideration, Severus, and I believe I have hired a suitable professor for the position. It is someone you know, and I will ask you to set aside your past conflicts in order to ensure that the students are not caught between two warring professors.”

“Who is it?” Snape coldly asked, his dark eyes boring into Dumbledore's. He refused to let the Headmaster see his reaction over being slighted yet again.

“Remus Lupin.”

An ugly scowl set upon Snape's face, turning quickly into a snarl.

“ _Remus Lupin_ ,” Snape repeated, his voice coming out like a hiss. “You chose to hire a _werewolf_ to teach the students defence?”

“Severus,” Dumbledore replied, in a strict tone. “He has faced persecution for what he is, and he has had to defend himself.”

“And gone on the offence as well,” Snape sneered. His left eye was ticking as the blood pounded toward his head and fuelled his anger.

“He will be carefully monitored, and I wish for you to supply him with Wolfsbane. Your brew is the only I would trust,” Dumbledore calmly said, paying not attention to the people around them, who were becoming more curious about their heated conversation.

“And if I refuse?” Snape silkily asked.

Dumbledore looked up from stirring his drink, with a considering look.

“If you are reneging on your duties of Potions Master, I shall have to find you another position within the castle.”

“Unacceptable,” Snape barked, before casting a quick spell around the table to mask their conversation.

“I have _earned_ that position. I had my suspicions of Quirrell, and investigated him as you asked. I put up with that fool of a professor last year, because you refused to sack the man and hire someone slightly more competent than a troll. But this is too far, Dumbledore. I will not stand by as you allow a werewolf into the school amongst the children.”

“Severus, I had hoped by now that you would be able to look past such skirmishes from childhood,” Dumbledore said. He took another sip of his cup, barely avoiding his beard from dripping in.

“It was attempted murder! And while I am aware that Lupin himself did not set the trap, I have no desire to be in close quarters with the beast that nearly killed me as a child,” Snape snapped back. “You will explain to me why I have been passed over for the position once again.”

“My boy, I do believe that I am the Headmaster of the school,” Dumbledore mildly said.

“And I gave my word to you to protect Lily's son!” Snape interrupted. “I swore on my life to protect him, and each year that you deny me the position, and the opportunity to teach him proper defensive skills, you make a complete mockery of my promise.”

Dumbledore's face softened, and it only made Snape angrier.

“Don't,” Snape started, but Dumbledore held up his hand.

“You are best suited right now for the position of Potions Master. As I do believe that Voldemort will continue trying to return, I know that your skills will be of the utmost value when that does happen. And so I must ask you again, Severus, please remain in your post, and continue to protect him. And I shall continue to keep my word, and never speak of your brave actions.”

Snape's lips tightened at that, and his throat visibly tightened as he swallowed back his first response.

“Have you not thought about Lupin's old friend, Sirius Black? And that he is now on the run?”

“Yes,” Dumbledore said, with a serious note to his voice. “And I do believe that, like yourself, Remus Lupin is not all together forgiving toward his friend for his friend's betrayal.”

“But you could be wrong,” Snape pressed. “You have Remus Lupin at the castle, Sirius Black has escaped, and Potter has grown into the exact Gryffindor replica of his father. The only thing missing, to help relive my merry days in fifth year is Peter Pettigrew.”  

“Ah Severus, you have always had a gift for the melodramatic,” Dumbledore said, with a smile. He spoke again quickly, interrupting Snape’s objection.

“But I believe you should take a closer look at Harry. I’ve been told that the Sorting Hat nearly placed him in Slytherin.”

“Preposterous,” Snape scoffed, coughing a little. “That boy is the very definition of impetuous. And as soon as he finds out what Black did, he will go after him.”

“ _If_ Harry finds out before Black is captured, I shall impress upon him how important it is to keep be on guard. For now, Harry is safe at his relatives, and will be safe at Hogwarts.”

Snape checked the time quickly and then rose from the table, realising it had gotten late and he was pushing his luck with his temper and tolerance of Dumbledore.

“As he was with the stone, and the basilisk?” Snape asked, putting his coat on. Before Dumbledore could answer, Snape shook his head.

“Three eleven year old children were able to bypass seven protective challenges set by professors. Potter’s luck and headstrong determination is dangerous, and the boy needs to be taught properly how to avoid the perilous situations he often finds himself in.”

Dumbledore smiled up at Snape, with a slight nod to his head, just as he had at the Leaving Feast when he’d stolen the House Cup from Slytherin. There had almost been a riot in the dungeon that evening, and Snape felt his anger start to rise again.

“We share the same concern of impending war, Severus,” Dumbledore quietly said. “But we must remember, that no matter how vital Harry Potter is to that war, he is still a boy. He need not concern himself with grisly tales of murder and betrayal, not yet.”

“He is a thirteen year old boy,” Snape impatiently said. “They’re all interested in murder and muck and mayhem. If Potter agrees, do I have your permission to privately tutor him with defensive spells?”

“I'm quite sure that Remus will do an adequate job, Severus,” Dumbledore said with slight surprise, holding up his empty mug toward the front cash and smiling at the waitress.

“Headmaster,” Snape prompted.

“However, if Mr Potter ever wishes to study further under your guidance, I shall of course not stand in the way.”

Snape nodded, buttoning up his still slightly damp overcoat. A muttered spell dried it, though Snape could hear the rain battering the cafe windows and knew it'd be drenched again soon enough.

“Fine,” Snape said. “Good evening.”

“Good evening,” Dumbledore cheerily replied. “Oh, and please have the first dose of Wolfsbane ready by the start of term, if you will.”

Snape scrunched up his mouth, as if he were going to swear, and after a second continued walking out of the cafe. Crossing Dumbledore over this would be merely a trivial matter, and if Snape were ever going to be reprimanded, he intended to deserve it.

 

...

“Albus sodding Dumbledore” Snape muttered, shedding back his thoroughly soaked cloak. It fell to the floor with a satisfying _splot_ , landing near the muddy footprints Snape’s boots had made. Covered in mud from the wet lanes and splashing cars that led from the cafe to an apparition point, Snape rested a damp hand against the wall as he wrestled the boots off his feet. Wool socks, damp enough to itch, but not enough to wrinkle the skin of his toes, were tossed in the pile next to the cloak. For good measure, Snape peeled the trousers from his legs, the wet skin prickling as sense returned to them. His lower legs were chilled, ankles splattered with a mixture of cold grit from the mud, and he cast a strong wandless spell to start his shower running with hot water.

He’d had a thoroughly wretched end to a dismal teaching year, and though the weather was acting as miserable as Snape felt, Snape was determined to spend this August warm. He left uneven footprints as he stalked half dressed through his small flat, the ball of his foot leaving more of a mark than his heel. After four weeks roaming the old Death Eater haunts, late nights in murky and depressing places; the only thing he had to show for it was a chill in him that usually had nothing to do with the weather, and a wariness that came with compounding insufficient sleep. He hadn't found any sign of Sirius Black, nor whatever remained of the Dark Lord. And Snape was determined to seek both out, as he refused to lie in wait and allow them to strike at will.

It was enough to be looking out for both of these threats now, with the Potter boy's penchant for finding trouble, and then to be told that he'd have to work alongside a werewolf that had once nearly killed him, well. That was the last straw.

Snape stepped into the large glass shower, the remainder of his clothes forgotten on the floor and his eyes closed as his skin warmed up to room temperature again. He didn’t like to take baths, didn’t have the patience to sit soaking in his own body’s…additions to water. No, he preferred showers, and as his clothing silently floated toward a laundry basket, he dispensed shampoo for his hair. Now that it was summer and there were no students around, his own careful brewing habits meant his personal appearance didn’t suffer from the protective washes he used as a professor.

The evening had most certainly turned sour, the rain not withstanding. The meeting had not gone anywhere that Snape had hoped, though if he were honest with himself, he'd rather expected the slight of position, and the fact that security around Potter wouldn't be stepped up regardless of what had happened in the previous two years. A student had been possessed, kidnapped, and nearly killed. Naturally, Potter would once again be left to his own devices to fend off such threats.

While Snape didn’t like the boy, he certainly didn’t wish him dead, and felt insulted that his promise to safe guard Lily’s boy was met with such a lackadaisical disregard for proper protection. Snape was not a lazy man, and while he was strictly a man of his word, he’d also observed that Potter attracted ill fortune like a damn magnet, and Snape knew it would only get worse.

Snape wrapped himself in a flannel pyjama set, with a thick fleecy house robe over top. Warm wool socks waited for him on the cast iron heater in his kitchen, and he mentally replayed the meeting through his mind as he waited on the kettle.

As irritating as Dumbledore’s outward nonchalance was, Snape had spent enough time as a Hogwarts professor to know that his concerns would be ever present in the back of the headmaster’s mind. Albus Dumbledore had never been one to lay all his cards on the table, and Snape suspected that even if the Dark Lord returned, and the wizarding world was thrust into a second world war, Dumbledore would continue to hold his plans and secrets close.

Pausing to turn on the small wooden wizarding wireless radio on the bookcase, Snape rolled his neck and listened to the produced crackles with a sort of satisfaction. He was only thirty-three, yet his body offered its own rather boisterous opinion to the treatment Snape had subjected it to over the years.

Snape sat back in his white armchair, sinking into the soft material of it and carefully holding onto his mug of hot chocolate. A personal indulgence that he’d never grown out of as a child, the chocolate permeated a pleasant aroma around the chair as Snape summoned the newspapers from his satchel on the coffee table. He’d bought several of them, from a tiring round of apparition to different counties in southern England. All had varying reports on Sirius Black, and though the Muggle news was slightly less detailed than the wizarding, the message was the same. Black had escaped from Azkaban, and hadn’t been seen since.

On the book case to the left of the mantel was the post, which had arrived through the charmed mail slot in the door and been immediately whisked to an inbox on the bookshelf. He spied a colourful glossy magazine in the post pile, and Snape summoned it to his seat. It was too late to go to the shops now, but perhaps in the morning he'd treat himself to a new training game.

Holding the mug of hot chocolate in his left hand, the one that felt the damp more due to several long-ago broken knuckles, Snape flicked through the magazine and circled the games he found interesting. That is what he would do tomorrow, he decided. Sod the rain, and sod the investigation for the moment. He’d tried his best to explain to Albus Dumbledore why his concerns for the safety of the school were so numerous, and the man had simply smiled away the complaints. Snape had some irritation to burn off now.

Snape relaxed back into his chair, watching the storm outside, until his hot chocolate was finished. Tomorrow he'd go into Upper Tarrow and get some of his own practice in, before making his way over to Little Whinging to check just how protected Potter was at that Muggle home. Snape had been to Surrey a few times, and been utterly unimpressed with the cookie-cutter impression the town gave. It was boring, unimaginative, built within the last fifty years and without any sort of character whatsoever. And no matter what the Headmaster believed, it wasn't safe. Severus Snape was quite certain he wasn't the only wizard, half-blood or otherwise, to discover that _Dursley, V P_ had been in the telephone book long before 1981.

 

…

Snape turned up his overcoat collar as he walked up Privet Drive, glancing up at the dark clouds overhead. Dusk had just fallen, and it was just that time of day that the insides of houses, all lit up, were far more visible than the outside.

Despite not paying attention to the house numbers, it was easy to pick out Petunia’s house. The front garden was manicured to perfection, and even the way the front windows had been painted and decorated with plant boxes reminded Snape of the Evans’s home when he was a child.

There was a lot of noise going inside as Snape approached, from the incessant barking of a small dog to a curious thumping sound near the front door. With an instinct that had rarely served him wrong in the past, Snape stepped into the shadows of the plants in the front garden, removing his prized Demiguise-hair invisibility cloak from his coat pocket and covering himself with it.

“BOY!”

The voice shouting through the door belonged to an adult, not a child, and after a second the door burst open and Snape got a good look of what must have been Vernon Dursley. His cherry-red face and pained expression made him look more grotesque than Snape suspected he normally looked, and his chubby pointing finger was out and shaking at Potter.

Potter was an interesting study himself. The boy was standing at the front door, with his trunk and owl cage, holding his Uncle at wand point.

“She deserved it,” Potter said, his hand never wavering. “I’ve had enough.”

Dursley’s face twisted further with rage, and Potter wisely stepped out of the house, out of reach of his Uncle.

“You fix her. This instant,” Dursley threatened.

“No,” Potter said, shaking his head. “I won’t. And I’m not sorry either.”

Before Dursley could respond to that cryptic statement, Potter yanked his trunk trolley over the front step and stormed off down the walkway. Snape watched the boy leave, with a determined walk he’d seen many a stubborn student do after they’d just received detention.

“Do not come back here, Potter, if you know what’s good for you!” Dursley finally growled, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the plant boxes. Snape heard two locks clicking closed inside, and the porch light was killed.

Before Snape could take a moment to figure out what on Earth had just happened, he heard the faint noise of apparition from somewhere behind the house. Snape had a slight sinking feeling upon recognising the noise, for the safety wards that Potter was to be under had strong anti-apparition barriers within them. A quick peek through the window showed a man wearing a Ministry of Magic uniform inside, and Snape felt slightly mollified that it was at least someone official (and therefore traceable), who had been able to enter the premises.

He looked toward the end of the drive to see if Potter had stopped there to collect his wits. The boy was nowhere to be found though, and Snape stomped out of the garden, cursing. Surely Potter wasn’t dim enough to actually leave.

…

“Stupid, stupid,” Harry muttered, kicking the woodchips of the Magnolia Crescent playground. He couldn’t hear Aunt Marge yelling anymore, but he could still see her dark shape floating between the clouds. It was a damp night again, and Harry was quickly realizing that he had no idea where to go.

London was an option, but only if Harry used magic to get there. A cat yowled from an alleyway to Harry’s right and he shivered, wanting to get out of the park. Dudley and his friends often chased Harry through the park during ‘Harry Hunting’, and by night it wasn’t any more pleasant of a place.

Harry reached into his trunk for his invisibility cloak and froze as he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Glancing round quickly, Harry’s fingers clenched the lid of his trunk. There was nothing there, nothing that he could see. The shadows were darker though, in contrast with the illuminated windows that showed other families settling in after dinner.

He reached down again, sure that once he’d found the cloak and a way to be unseen, he’d be able to think with a clearer mind. It’d be safer, at the very least. The chilling feeling of being watched washed over him again, and Harry whipped his wand out as he spun around. Through one of the side streets, between two parked cars and in the direct path that Harry had walked not moments before, a giant black dog was growling. The eyes seemed to glow, and the beast was hunched over.

“Canus exumai!” Harry yelled, though his spell hit the car instead of the advancing dog. Harry frantically tried to think of another spell to use, as the dog was snapping as it approached, when he felt the presence of someone else behind him. Harry didn’t turn to see who it was though, as the appearance of the stranger had _really_ set the dog off. Barking and foaming at the mouth, the dog started to run and Harry hoped that the man beside him would mistake his wand for just a stick. Seconds before Harry was going to try another spell, the rubbish bin at the kerb exploded. Bits of paper and old food went flying, causing the dog to bark in frustration and run off.

Harry, his fingers pulsing as he gripped his wand strongly, fought his instincts to not turn around. While he was happy to be rid of the snarling dog, he was now quite certain that whoever was behind him was also a wizard.

“I suppose it would never occur to you to _aim for the eyes_?”

There was no mistaking that voice, and Harry’s eyes widened as he took in Snape. The man was standing about ten feet behind him, swathed in black Muggle clothes and with nary a hair out of place. He looked irritated, but then, Snape was almost always irritated at something. Even though that something was probably Harry, Harry couldn’t help but feel a rush of relief upon seeing the man. Snape was scary as hell, and there were worse people to have at his back in the dark.

“I was trying to,” Harry sarcastically responded, before snapping his mouth shut. Professor Snape was in Little Whinging, in the middle of the summer. That wasn’t good.

“You’ve come to expel me, haven’t you,” Harry asked in realisation, his stomach flipping over and settling somewhere down near his knees.

“Expel you?” Snape softly asked, raising his eyebrow in a way that demanded an immediate explanation. His voice sounded slightly rougher than normal, as if he had a sore throat.

“For what I did to my aunt,” Harry miserably said, pointing up to where Aunt Marge was floating.

A strange expression came over Snape’s face, one Harry was fairly certain he’d never seen before.

“You overinflated Petunia?”

“No,” Harry said, disappointment in his voice as his mind was trying to figure out how he’d be able to self-study enough to still live in the wizarding world. “That’s Uncle Vernon’s sister.”

He caught a fleeting glimpse of disappointment in Snape’s scowl, before it was replaced by the familiar sneer that Snape usually had when he looked down on Harry.

“I see. However fun you may find it to turn your relatives into weather balloons, I assure you I am not here to discuss that particular bit of underage magic,” Snape said, crossing his arms. “That is the reason you have fled your home with all your belongings, three weeks before school starts?”

Harry shrugged and looked up at the floating Marge again.

“I’ll be lucky if they even think about letting me back next year,” Harry grumbled, before narrowing his eyes. “Why are you here?”

“Proving a theory,” Snape muttered, ignoring the attitude. Snape flicked his wand toward Harry’s trunk, closing the lid and locking it.

“To summarize, Potter. It is half eight in the evening, you have fled your relatives’ home, and the safety of the wards, due to a bout of accidental magic. And you will not go back, because, as you say, they will be less than inclined to take you.”

Snape did not make any mention of having overheard the final warning of Dursley, nor that he thought Potter was likely correct.

Harry kicked his shoe along the pile of loose gravel on the pavement.

“Right.”

Snape’s tongue clicked audibly in his mouth, as if he were physically holding himself back from making a comment. Finally he drew his wand, and gave a significant glare toward Harry’s trunk.

“The Headmaster would be delighted to hear it,” Snape said, reaching to grasp Harry's arm.

“Wait,” Harry said, twisting slightly away, but trying to make it seem like he was not avoiding Snape. “What was that thing over there? That wasn’t a normal dog,” Harry asked, pointing his wand out in the direction of the dog’s last location.

A giant bang sounded and Harry flinched at the noise. Snape had his wand raised against the new threat within a second, and scowled deeply when the purple bus came into view.

“Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard. I am Stan Shunpike, your conductor for…”

“Piss off,” Snape said, not lowering his wand and still managing to look extremely intimidating, despite not having his teaching robes on. “Your services are not required.”

The spotty teenaged conductor looked between the two of them, and seemed to realise his speech had been interrupted.

“Now ‘old on ‘ere. Dinn’t one of yous stick out your wand?”

Harry blinked, caught between looking at the garishly bright bus and the spot where the dog had been.

“I was pointing at something,” Harry said, confused. “I didn't...what is a Knight Bus?”

“Emergency Transport for the Stranded Witch or Wizard,” Shunpike picked up, looking warily at Snape. “Anywhere you want t’ go, but nuffink underwater.”

“Neither of us is a stranded wizard. You may leave,” Snape curtly said. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and managed to blow his considerable nose in a condescending manner.

The conductor, who either didn't recognize Snape or didn't remember him well enough to be bothered, gave a slight shrug and yelled at someone named Ernie to hit the gas. With another loud bang and a cloud of exhaust, the bus took off and popped out of existence.

“I could have used that, sir,” Harry said, trying not to sound too disrespectful. “I need to get to Diagon Alley; I've got no where to stay tonight, and only a galleon or two.”

“A thirteen year old unsupervised in Diagon Alley?” Snape silkily asked, and there was a threat in his voice that dared Harry to say it was a good idea. “You will thank me for not forcing you to ride that atrocious excuse for transport.”

Before Harry could argue either point, Snape grabbed Harry’s arm and started marching him, trunk, owl cage and all, down the dark side street toward Privet Drive.

…..

“Absolutely NOT!” Vernon Dursley yelled, before slamming the door. Harry blinked as the plant boxes rattled slightly from the force of the slam. Rain clouds were gathering overheard, the wind was picking up, and the inside of the house still slightly smelled of dinner. He could hear Dudley laughing about something stupid inside – probably the telly. Still, Harry thought his Uncle’s reaction was rather tame, all things considering.

Snape stood slightly behind him, trying to stifle a cough, and with a miserable look on his face. Harry wondered if he was getting sick, as when they’d been walking up the street, Harry thought he saw Snape drink from a potion phial and then steam escaping Snape’s ears. He wasn’t suicidal enough to ask though.

“Dursley!” Snape yelled, pounding on the door with his fist. Harry did a quick mental check as he waited for his Uncle to open the door again. Invisibility cloak was hidden under his shirt, wand was tucked into his long sock, and a packet of biscuits were sellotaped to the underside of Hedwig’s cage, which had a slightly raised bottom.

“Get rid of him,” Vernon hissed, swinging open the door again and filling it with his large frame. “We didn’t want him as a baby, and we don’t want him now.”

“I don’t recall giving you a choice,” Snape coldly replied. “I am quite certain that the Ministry of Magic will reverse whatever accidental magic Potter used on your sister,” Snape growled, and his hoarse voice made him sound even more threatening than he usually was. “And regardless of whether they will or not, you are his guardian and are legally responsible for him.”

Vernon’s eyes blazed, and beyond the door Harry could hear Dudley now yelling at the television.

“Severus Snape,” a nasty voice suddenly said, and Aunt Petunia came into view. Harry clenched the handle on his trunk’s trolley tighter, waiting to see what she would say. Uncle Vernon was a loud and quick-tempered man, but Aunt Petunia could be vicious and cutting.

“You used to do accidental magic too,” Petunia waspishly said, crossing her arms. “When we were children. But it was never quite accidental, was it?”

She glared strongly at him, and Harry fought to keep himself from looking too shocked. Aunt Petunia knew Professor Snape? And not only knew him, but _hated_ him.

“You’ll be glad to hear I’ve become much more subtler in my ways of seeking revenge,” Snape nastily replied, and Harry was suddenly confused. Why would Snape need to take revenge on his Muggle Aunt?

Vernon grunted, placing his arm behind Petunia as if it was to guard the interior of the house from Harry and Snape. He looked over at Harry with a scowl.

“I knew they were making you ever more horrid than you were,” Vernon said.

“Thinks he’s better than us,” Petunia added, never once taking her eyes away from Snape. Harry didn’t know if she was referring to him or Snape. “He started out a nasty little boy, just like you. And now you’re back, to tell us to take him in? Forget it. We’ve had enough.”

“I believe you have been informed that the boy must stay here, for his own safety?” Snape said, looking down his large nose at Aunt Petunia.

“He should have thought of that before he blew up my sister!” Vernon growled. Finally Aunt Petunia looked at him, with such an expression of antipathy that Harry had never seen from her before.

“I don’t care. You took Lily away from me. Now you can take her kid.”

With that brazen statement, she turned into the house and stormed off. Vernon gave a triumphant harrumph, and slammed the door.

Harry stared at it, feeling numb over his Aunt’s reaction. She usually just acted resigned to Harry’s presence.

“You can go,” Harry said, staring at the door. “They’ll either let me in tonight, or I’ll go to Diagon Alley.”

Snape stared at him, before letting out a loud sneeze that made Harry jump and drop Hedwig’s cage. It sounded like a broken foghorn had tried to sound an alarm.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Snape growled, grabbing Harry’s arm and apparating with a loud enough crack that Harry knew his relatives had heard it.

….

 

The landing was quite a bit rougher than the take off, and Harry yelped as his trunk landed squarely on his foot.

“What was _that_?” Harry demanded, blinking as he took in his surroundings. They were surrounded by a patch of trees and it had started to drizzle.

“Apparition,” Snape answered, still holding onto Harry’s arm as he led Harry over a small bridge toward the village. Harry realised that most of the lights along the street had been dimmed. There was a constant running water splash to his left, as the creek they were passing over flowed down toward a large wooden millwheel that was mostly lost to the shadows. The building it was connected to was two stories tall, with an attic, and had a little front garden and entry tucked in behind the slope of the bridge. There were two doors in the entrance way, one painted a cheery dark purple colour and decorated with an ornate pull and knocker. The other was a plain blue/black colour, with a cast iron knocker and plain door pull.

Unsurprisingly, Snape unlocked the dark door.

“This isn’t Diagon Alley,” Harry said, clutching the handle on his trunk trolley tightly.

“Well spotted. Remove your shoes,” Snape ordered, opening the door and slipping inside. There was a faint scent of coffee drifting up the narrow hallway, and the place was warm, as if Snape had only stepped out moments earlier. Harry removed his shoes and looked around with unhidden curiosity.

To his left was a small living room, the windows of which faced the brick retaining wall of the bridge outside, as well as the creek that ran to the mill. It was a cosy living room, and though there were three rather full bookcases in it, they didn’t overwhelm everything else. A large chesterfield sat beneath the main window, and two chairs were slightly off kilter across from the chesterfield.

“Potter!” Snape ordered, from wherever he’d disappeared to down the hall. “Leave your things and come here.”

Harry hastened to do so, but couldn’t help glancing around as he moved. The hallway seemed to be the spine of the house, connecting five rooms together in a row. The first was the living room, the second a tiny office, filled with paperwork and more books, the third a plain bathroom, the fourth a shut door which Harry suspected was Snape’s bedroom, and the fifth, at the very end, the kitchen. It looked to be the same size as the living room, and had a large table that was covered more in books and parchment than in kitchen-y items.

“It goes without saying that you will not breathe a word of this house to anyone,” Snape said, giving Harry a threatening look. It was a look that Harry had trouble taking seriously, as Snape was leaning up against his kitchen counter as a coffee maker percolated beside him. The wind was picking up outside, and in addition to raindrops splattering against the window; a few tree branches were scraping up against it as well.

Snape rubbed his throat as he was waiting for the coffee, like he was giving himself a massage.

“All right,” Harry answered, sitting at the table.

“ _Yes, sir_ ,” Snape growled, glaring at Harry.

“Yes, sir,” Harry dully repeated. “Does Dumbledore know I’m here?”

“In the three seconds it took for us to arrive?” Snape asked, giving Harry a withering look. “Yes Potter. I told him all about our wondrous summer plans.”

“So he doesn’t,” Harry said, looking up at Snape with a calculating glare.

“The Headmaster doesn’t even know where this house is,” Snape answered.

“What?” Harry dumbly asked. “You can’t just kidnap students!”

“Students fully packed and stomping around outside after curfew?” Snape sneered, glowering right back. “I didn’t kidnap you, Potter. I intercepted your pathetic attempt at running away.”

“I’m not pathetic,” Harry argued, trying not to recall that he’d not even had a place in mind to run to when he’d left.

Harry waited for Snape’s counter answer, but the man looked like he was trying to decide whether he was going to say something important or not. Harry had learned at a young age to let people like that decide without asking. Uncle Vernon was far less repulsive when he’d not been pushed into saying what was on his mind.

Instead, Harry looked around the little kitchen and noticed that Snape kept this room fairly similar to his dungeon classrooms. There was a cauldron set up on the counter, but other than that, the kitchen was basic and seemed to be well stocked. The window over the kitchen sink was against the wall where the giant millwheel was, and it looked dark and slightly ominous in this evening rain.

“Potter,” Snape said, finally coming to a decision. “What did the Headmaster tell you of the events of your first year? Regarding Quirrell.”

Harry snapped back to attention and focused on Snape. The kitchen was quite warm and Harry no longer felt chilled, but Snape looked almost like he was too warm.

“What? Like how he died? Voldemort was in the back of his head, and neither of them could touch me,” Harry said, noticing Snape’s very slight tightening of the lips at the name usage. He had been expecting a conversation about his relatives though, not Voldemort.

“So you are aware that You-Know-Who is not dead,” Snape deadpanned, pouring his coffee. He seemed to consider Harry for a slight second, and without asking, poured another cup.

“Yeah,” Harry said, rubbing his eyes. It had been an edgy night, and now that he was indoors and safe, fatigue was starting to set in. “Professor Dumbledore said not to worry so much yet, but I know he’ll keep trying to find a way to come back. He was trying in the Chamber, last year.”

Snape placed the coffee on the table, and fetched milk from the fridge.

“Ah yes. Two twelve year old boys forcing their Defence Against the Dark Arts professor to go after a basilisk with them,” Snape said, sitting at a chair and stirring the milk into his coffee. His voice was thick with sarcasm, and Harry was trying to work out what the point of the conversation was, and exactly whom Snape was angry with.

“Well he wouldn’t have gone on his own. He was a fraud,” Harry strongly said. “I learned more from you in the duelling club than I did from Lockhart.”

“Precisely,” Snape said, his eyes flashing. “And you hate me, don’t you, Potter.”

Caught, Harry wasn’t certain if a lie or the truth would be best.

“You’ve never been my favourite professor, sir,” Harry answered, a flush rising on his cheeks.

“Of course not,” Snape snorted, before drinking his coffee. Harry took a tentative sip of his and scrunched up his face. He reached for the milk that Snape had placed on the table, and hoped that would help.

“It should come to no surprise to you that _you_ are not my favourite student,” Snape continued, drumming his fingers on the table. “And yet, I have brought you to my personal home. Can you tell me why I might have done that, Potter?”

Harry had been wondering that since he’d arrived, but he wasn’t just going to say that. He felt like a first year again, facing Snape's impossible questions on his first day of potions class.

“I don't know, sir. If it’s because of the Dursleys, there’s no need. That’s rather normal for them.”

Snape leaned forward, his elbow on the table and his fingers massaging his temple. His skin was slightly less pale than it normally was at school, and his cheeks were a bit flushed.

"Potter, I dearly hope that you have been keeping up with the news all summer, and not stuck your head in the sand. I don’t care one whit about your relatives."

"Only Muggle news," Harry defensively answered, holding his mug closely in his hands. The coffee still tasted strange, but it was warm. He racked his memories of the past few weeks to think of anything in the news that Snape would be referring to. The only thing he could think of was the escaped convict that his uncle had been ranting about a few days earlier.

“Is this about that Black bloke? The Muggle murderer?”

“The _wizard_ ,” Snape corrected, withdrawing his handkerchief and blowing his nose. “The wizard who likely has escaped to find you, Potter.”

“To find me?” Harry repeated, sitting straight up in his chair. “But I’ve never even heard of him!”

“Naturally, as he’s been in Azkaban for eleven years,” Snape answered, unearthing a _Daily Prophet_ from the far end of the table and tossing it over. “And obviously you haven’t done any research into the history surrounding the man who murdered your parents.”

Harry ignored Snape’s jeer and bit his lip at the mad laughing photo of Black on the front. He read the news article, becoming more concerned as he saw that Sirius Black had managed to kill thirteen people with just one curse. He certainly sounded like the right kind of man to work for Voldemort. And if he worked for Voldemort, he, like Malfoy, probably blamed Harry for being in prison. Harry blinked strongly as he took in the information. He automatically took a sip of his coffee, finding that the taste got slightly better after a few sips.

“Right. So Sirius Black, Mr Malfoy, and Voldemort all want to kill me,” Harry numbly said, resting his feet up on the bottom rung of the kitchen chair, noticing again the flinch his stern professor gave at Voldemort’s name.

“And myself upon occasion. My job would also be much easier if you assumed everyone was out to get you,” Snape muttered, crossing his arms. He looked up and summoned the coffee pot to the table.

“What about Lucius Malfoy?” Snape asked a moment later.

“At the end of last year he threatened that I’d meet the same sticky end as my parents,” Harry distractedly replied. The facts were starting to settle into his brain, and Harry wanted to curl up into a ball in his cupboard. He'd just turned thirteen; his relatives loathed him, people wanted to murder him, and he currently in the house of the man who hated him just for who he was.

“Professor Dumbledore won't tell me why Voldemort wants to kill me. Or the others,” Harry quietly said. Though they mutually detested each other, Professor Snape had been very consistent in his treatment of Harry, and likely wouldn't lie to him to make him feel better. And while he didn’t have a clue why Snape had come to fetch him from Little Whinging, at least he was indoors and safe.

Snape knocked his cup back to the table, the coffee sloshing slightly over and dripping down the outside.

“The Headmaster does a lot of irritating things that he thinks are for the greater good,” Snape grouchily said, using his finger to wipe up the coffee drip on the mug.

Harry opened his mouth and shut it again, mentally reviewing the bizarre events of the night. Inflating Aunt Marge, running away from the Dursleys, seeing that dog…and Snape appearing out of nowhere, telling him to aim for the eyes next time. And then telling him about the danger of Sirius Black, instead of keeping Harry in the dark.

An absurd thought came to Harry’s mind, but he was slightly overwhelmed and voiced it before he could tell himself better.

“Are you actually concerned about my safety?”

A strange look came over Snape’s face for a second, and then he put his coffee mug down and added a bit to it, from the coffee pot.

“Are you not?” Snape quietly asked, and Harry instantly looked up. Snape was always quiet in class when he wanted to give important information.

“Of course I am,” Harry quickly said. “But, it's usually up to me. I mean, Dumbledore's never really...”

He trailed off, watching the storm brewing on Snape's face.

“You-Know-Who has tried at least twice to kill you since your arrival at Hogwarts. And what do you think he will try this year? I shall assume that by now you have figured out that he will not rest. And I assure you, unlike Headmaster Dumbledore or the Ministry of Magic, I believe that the Dark Lord is best defeated _now_ , before he returns to full strength. And he will, Potter, return to full strength.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, finishing off his coffee. The wind was picking up outside and there was a light creaking sound coming from the kitchen window, where the millwheel was turning. “I'd figured that out.”

Snape suddenly sneezed, and Harry jumped in his seat as it sounded like a poorly out of tune tuba.

“And what are you going to do about it?” Snape pressed, sitting back in his chair and ignoring the look on Harry’s face. “You most certainly do not want to rely on dumb luck the next time you meet him.”

Harry bristled, feeling annoyed that this was even up to him to sort out.

“I don’t have any other options. Unless you know that the new Defence teacher is going to actually teach us how to defend ourselves, instead of signing autographs,” Harry sulked.

“Unlikely,” Snape growled. “And as it currently stands, if the Dark Lord walks through that door you’ve got a flobberworm’s chance of surviving.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Harry snapped. “When we clobbered that troll, it was ‘sheer, dumb luck’. When I defeated Quirrell, it was my mother’s protection that did it. After the basilisk bit me, it was Fawkes who took out the venom. And now with the dog, it was you that chased it away.”

Harry paused for a second as Snape sneezed again, this time startling only slightly at the noise.

“Don’t you think I know I’m useless?” Harry finished, a scowl on his face as he glared at his mug.

Snape regarded him for a moment and Harry wondered if he’d be in trouble for his attitude.

“You’ll make a fine figurehead,” Snape finally answered. Harry’s head jerked up in indignation, but Snape was glaring at him in a way that kept him quiet and listening.

“Defence tutoring. Twice a week, on average, for the year.”

Harry was grateful that he'd already finished his drink, because if he hadn't, he'd likely have spit it out or dropped the mug.

“Lessons? Even though I’m not a Slytherin?”

“This has nothing to do with houses, Potter,” Snape snapped. “This has to do with the fact that You-Know-Who will not stop until he's caught you, and properly training you would ease the workload of those entrusted with your survival.”

Harry blinked a few times as he considered Snape’s offer. It was bloody strange to be in Snape’s house to begin with, and Harry would have sworn Snape was under a spell or something to have been offering the lessons, but the impatient look on the man’s face was very familiar.

“Yes.” Harry said, not entirely certain he’d not just agreed to some form of weekly torture. “Please. Sir,” he added.

Snape’s shoulders relaxed ever so slightly, and he gave Harry a slight nod. His eyes pinched shut in an odd expression, and Harry braced for another trumpeting sneeze.

“Very well. Keep in mind, Potter, that what I will be teaching you is dangerous. And if I find you have used spells learned in your lessons against your peers, I will not hesitate to have you expelled.”

“I don’t hex my classmates, sir,” Harry said, keeping his voice even.

Snape’s upper lip curled.

“Of course not.”

A low rumble passed by the house, deep and long, and warning of an impending storm. Snape checked the time on his watch, and stood up to carry the pot and his mug back to the sink.

“The Weasley family is connected to the Floo?”

Harry fought to end his yawn, and made a funny face as he did so.

“Yes, but they’re in Egypt right now,” Harry answered. “All of them.”

He tried not to look at Snape, because he knew the man was trying to figure out where else Harry could go for the night. And Harry already knew the answer to that short list of options: back to the Dursleys, or to an inn.

“Just as well,” Snape muttered, pointing at the hallway. “Black likely knows where they live.”

The front room was creepier than the kitchen, as the street lamp on the bridge outside illuminated Snape’s front garden patch just enough to create impressive shadows. The swaying tree branches flittered in the window, and Harry tried not to focus on them.

Thankfully, Snape cast a spell to draw the blinds shortly afterwards, and Harry noticed that the couch had been unfolded into a bed.

“You will stay here tonight,” Snape said, as if there were any other sort of legitimate option. Short of ringing Hermione’s parents and asking them to take him in, Harry didn’t have anywhere else to go. “The washroom is down the hall. The house is warded, and there will be no need to wake me in the middle of the night.”

That was accompanied by a look, and Harry nodded.

“You may read a book from the bookshelves, but only ones that are directly related to your studies,” Snape continued. “And remember, I will know exactly what you have touched in this room.”

Snape left not long after, and Harry quickly made use of the washroom. Even though Snape had said the house was warded, Harry lay on the sofa bed and stared up at the ceiling in the living room. He almost felt exposed, being so close to the front door. One of the few positive aspects about the cupboard that he’d grown up in was that it was hidden under the stairs, and as a little boy Harry had never really had nightmares about burglars because he’d told himself that his cupboard was safe. No one thought to look in cupboards for little boys.

Turning over in his bed, Harry pulled the covers up over his head and tried not to think about Sirius Black. He flinched at the sound of one of Snape’s sneezes again, and then the man’s bedroom door closed, and the only sounds Harry could hear were the branches scraping against the windows, and the running water from the creek.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This may seem like a slower pace than usual, but fear not, as we move into the school year odd things will start happening, as usual around Harry.

Harry woke with a start as he imagined hearing a tapping noise on the window. It wasn’t a branch – having heard them all night in the storm Harry knew the sound – but it was a distinct tap, as if someone was using a knocker. Or their wand.

He clutched the blankets covering him and tried to roll onto his side with as little disturbance to the bedsheets as possible. Rolling smoothly, Harry landed on his feet and crouched down. There was a large shadow outside; that he could see the silhouette of in the window, and his heart was racing.

Harry grabbed his wand from the side table beside the couch and crawled over to the window, keeping his head below the edge. He never once took his eyes off of the shadow, which disappeared for a second by the front door, then reappeared at the edges of the lower living room window. Harry slipped into parseltongue without realising it.

“Ssssssnaaaaape,” he hissed, trying to get the Professor’s attention without alerting whatever was outside. Harry had no idea how anything had even gotten that close, as surely someone like Snape would have had all sorts of protection on his home. The man had even said last night the house was warded!

The doorknob rattled and Harry aimed his wand at it, ready to cast whatever spell he could if it opened. Some sort of stinging spell must have been on the doorknob though, as there was a scuffling noise on the step stone outside the door and the rattling stopped immediately afterward. Harry was watching intently, and through the curtains was able to see the long, scraggly black hair and hunched shoulders of the dog that had been hunting him the night before.

“Shite!” Harry cursed, though he was mostly certain that the dog couldn’t get in. He heard a muted, frustrated growl from outside, and took his chance to run to Snape’s door.

“Snape!” Harry tried again, banging on the door. He heard movement from inside Snape’s room, and glanced also at the front door. Everything was quiet up there, but Harry could see the shadows of swaying tree branches through the curtains.

“Come on,” Harry muttered, looking down the hall toward the kitchen. The back wall had a large window across it, and Harry suddenly wondered if the dog would go around back and try to look in from there.

“What?” Snape suddenly barked. His hair was an absolute mess, hanging partially over his face, and he wore a long blue house robe over his nightshirt. His nose was red, enough that Harry could tell even in the dim morning light, and he was holding onto the doorframe for support.

“The…dog,” Harry lamely said, staring at Snape. “The giant black dog is at the front, it was trying to get in.”

He felt incredibly stupid saying it aloud, as he was indoors and he knew that dogs couldn’t open locked doors.

“There are plenty of dogs about the neighbourhood, _Potter_ ,” Snape growled, and Harry could hear from his voice that the man was congested. 

Harry snapped his mouth shut and glanced toward the front of the house again, where the wind was still blowing, but any ominous shadows he’d seen earlier were gone.

“Best hope the one from last night hasn’t decided to join them, then,” Harry sulkily responded, stepping back into the hallway. It was clear Snape thought him an idiot for being afraid of such a thing, and Harry loosened his grip on his wand. Maybe if he sat in the kitchen, away from the front door, he’d be able to read something until Snape got up for the day.

“We are currently over one hundred miles from where that dog was last seen,” Snape sarcastically continued, glaring at Harry. “And yet at Hogwarts, famous Harry Potter is more than eager to face a three headed dog not once, but twice.”

“It didn’t feel the same,” Harry muttered, his cheeks warm with embarrassment. “Sorry to bother you, _sir_.”

Harry walked back toward the front room, determined not to let any hesitation in his step show that he was still unnerved by the shadow he’d seen earlier.

“Potter,” Snape said, after a rough cough. “If it will put your simple little mind at ease, this house is protected by the same wards surrounding the castle.”

Harry looked back at him and nodded.

“Now, it’s half six. I know you are a thirteen year old boy with a particularly strong habit of getting into trouble, but I will risk leaving you alone for two hours while I rest.”

With another strong glare that promised death or other nasty consequences (despite the wards) if Harry destroyed anything, Snape shut his bedroom door. Harry figured it was quite the mark of how dreadful the man felt, because he certainly wouldn’t have left himself alone in the house.

He went to the washroom quickly, staring about at the plain tiles and boring blue towels on the rack. Snape’s bathroom was depressingly normal, though the cabinet above the toilet did have some interesting potions and salves in it. All meticulously labelled, and Harry noted a dark green jar at the front labelled “Murtlap Essence – cuts.” He pulled it out, and carefully dropped some of the liquid onto the teeth and claw marks on his lower right leg. Always his right leg – Harry wasn’t sure why he always stuck that one out when Ripper ran at him.

He spent another few minutes dotting the teeth marks on his hands, and scrunched up his face at the smell.

Back out in the hallway, Harry decided to continue with his inspection of Snape’s house. Ron would never believe that he’d spent the night here, and that Snape didn’t live in some sort of vampire’s coven.

On the wall shared with the neighbour next door, Harry noticed a large black and white sketch of a rundown row house. It wasn’t labelled, and like most wizarding photos it moved, though it wasn’t on a loop like a regular magic photo. It also wasn’t quite the same as a portrait, as Harry couldn’t get the attention of any of the few people walking past the house.

Harry went back to his trunk to gather some warmer clothes than his pyjamas and had a good look around the living room. It was small, but it was furnished well and there were all sorts of interesting trinkets on the bookcases. Snape seemed to like matchbox cars, as he had a collection on random shelves of his bookcases. No strange looking cars – Snape seemed to prefer the normal every day ones.

Harry kept browsing the bookcase, looking to see if he could find any books to keep himself busy with until Snape woke up. There was a plastic bag on the middle shelf, in front of what looked to be a small old television, and Harry moved the bag aside to see what was behind it. He nearly dropped the bag when he saw a familiar plastic controller.

“No way,” Harry breathed, pulling on the cord. He’d seen one before, and as the loose stack of paper shifted around it, Harry grinned. A Super Nintendo controller. Dudley had gotten the game system for Christmas last year, as it had only been out a few months, but he’d not let Harry play with it. Harry had watched though, and was fairly certain he could get it working.

On the shelf beside the television was a pile of papers, and under that, the gaming system. Incredibly odd, as Harry couldn’t imagine Snape _ever_ playing a Muggle game, but it was in the man’s house, and did seem to be used as everything was still plugged in. And not only that, in the shopping bag that Harry had moved, was another game for the Nintendo still in its plastic wrapper. Snape was pretty young though, unlike the other professors at school. He was the same age as Harry’s parents, which would make him thirty-two, or thirty-three. Harry shrugged to himself. As much as he hated his summers with the Muggle Dursleys, Harry knew he’d never completely abandon some Muggle ways of life, and perhaps Professor Snape was the same.

A bit chilled, Harry slipped back under the covers on the fold out couch as he waited for the television and game to start up. He was going to try the game Snape had already been playing: Super Mario Kart. What a weird twist to his summer. He was staying at his enemy Professor’s house, but unlike his Muggle Aunt and Uncle’s, able to play video games.

After two frustrating hours of racing, Harry turned the game off and muttered darkly at it. Dudley and his friends made it seem so _easy_ to play, and Harry could barely keep on the racecourse. And that was before the other racers started shooting bananas and shells at him. He’d gotten marginally better with his reaction time for avoiding them, but not much.

As he took one of Snape’s books back down the hall to the kitchen, Harry realised from his experience with the game that Snape was right. He definitely needed training, if he couldn’t even beat a silly racing game.

Snape had one of those stovetop teapots, so Harry filled it and popped it on the stove for some warm tea. He rubbed his arm subconsciously as he waited, over the healing scar left from the Basilisk’s fang. He’d not been fast enough then either. Maybe he’d see if Snape would let him play the Nintendo often, to work on his hand-eye coordination. Harry figured that was what Snape probably had the Nintendo for, as he knew from the duelling club that his professor was a very quick draw.

Harry left the book he’d brought on the table, no longer interested in reading it. He must have been too tired, or perhaps worried, the night before to notice how interesting Snape’s kitchen was. A counter by the back wall held two cauldrons, both of which contained some sort of liquid kept immobile from a spell. Interestingly, several different ingredients were kept in glass cooking containers – the very sort his Aunt Petunia had bought from a department store.

A battered potions book was open on the table, the pages kept apart by a chipped stirring stick, and the recipe was covered more in cross outs and additions than the original print. Harry couldn’t read what the potion was, as Snape had overwritten the name too.

Finished with the kitchen, Harry crept down the hall and pushed the door to the office open wider. It was a small dark room, filled with random bits of parchment and Muggle notepaper, along with several maps of England pinned to the walls. The notes were written in a tiny and nearly illegible text, much worse than the corrections Harry usually received on his essays, but it was obvious that Snape was doing some sort of research related to small towns in the UK. Quite a few towns were pinned on the map; Godric’s Hollow, London, Brittle Wood Marsh in Wiltshire, Little Hangleton, Hogsmeade, a tiny speck of an island in the North Sea, and a town in Wales he’d never heard of.

In addition to the pins were coloured half circles on the map, connecting the different cities and villages, or in some cases, not connecting them. The circles seemed to have been drawn with a compass, and the arch of the circle apparently mattered more than the points it connected.

None of it made any sort of sense to Harry, and he wondered why a potions master would be so interested in geography. A tapping noise at the window broke his concentration, and Harry whipped his wand out as he turned toward the noise.

“Hedwig!” Harry yelped, blinking rapidly. He moved quickly to the window, unlocking it so she could come in.

“I was worried about you.”

Hedwig gave him a blank look, as if to call him an idiot, and held out her leg. Clutched in her talons was a small note, and Harry walked them to the kitchen to read it.

The note was written on a letterhead from the Ministry of Magic.

_‘Dear Mr Potter,_

_Your Aunt has been restored to her normal size, and the incident of accidental magic excused. Please inform us of your whereabouts at your earliest convenience._

_Best Regards,_

_Marie Kerkhouse_

_Ministry of Magic’_

Harry felt instantly wary of the letter, wondering why the Ministry of Magic cared where he was. He folded the note carefully, and stuck it in his pocket to give to Snape later.

Leaving Hedwig to rest on a disused owl post by the back door, Harry sat back down at the table. There were a few empty notebooks stacked at the end of the table, and though they were small and looked to be reminder notebooks, Harry grabbed one and started writing all the weird things that had happened to him this summer so far.

  * Snape had shown up in Little Whinging.
  * The giant black dog had tried to attack him.
  * Snape had taken him to his own home, and promised to teach Harry defence.
  * Snape had some sort of weird obsession with the geography of the United Kingdom.



When the wall clock ticked for ten, Harry put the book into his pocket and made his way down the hallway. There’d not been a sound of anyone else moving in the house, and Harry was fairly certain that Snape wasn’t one to accidentally oversleep.

Just as Harry reached Snape’s bedroom door, he realised he could hear snoring coming from inside. It wasn’t the normal rhythmic snoring he’d heard from Dudley and Uncle Vernon, but it sounded instead that Snape was having trouble breathing.

Taking a chance against getting hexed, Harry pushed the door open slightly. The room was very dark, and in the faint light edging the blinds of the windows, Harry could see the profile of Snape’s nose sticking up.

The room smelled faintly of eucalyptus, and pepper-up potion. Snape was definitely sick.

Closing the door again, because Snape was grumpy when he was feeling well, and Harry didn’t want to imagine him when he was ill, Harry went into the kitchen to see what he could find for lunch.  There was perhaps enough to put together a soup, but Snape had clearly been away for a few days and needed food.

He made a list of things that they needed, including more broth, and stared around the kitchen. Harry had less than a galleon on him, and figured even that wouldn’t help, as they were likely in a Muggle village. He’d seen the electric street lamps last night while walking over the bridge, and Snape’s house had light switches and fairly recent Muggle appliances.

He figured Snape had to have some Muggle money as well, so he took a deep breath and pulled out his wand. Harry opened his mouth, before realising that he had no idea if there was a spell to summon money. The odds were that it didn’t exist, as that would make stealing money far too easy for any witch or wizard.

“Show me Snape’s Muggle money,” Harry finally said, waving his wand a little. It was the best he could come up with and he wasn’t surprised when nothing happened. “Bring me Snape’s Muggle money,” Harry tried again.

Once more nothing happened, and Harry felt like kicking the table. Some wizard he was. Thirteen years old and he couldn’t figure out how to find money in the house. Hermione would know, and even Ron probably knew.

Harry slumped down at the table; ignoring the half glare that Hedwig gave him for the noise. Snape had a weird looking dictionary on the table, and Harry suddenly had an idea. He snuck quietly down to the front room, again hearing snores from Snape’s bedroom, and checked the bookcases. Sure enough, Snape had an _Encyclopaedia of Magical Spells_.

It took Harry another fifteen minutes of searching to find the right spell and wand movement, but he felt confident. Raising his wand once more, Harry cleared his throat and spoke strongly.

“Accio Snape’s Muggle money.”

Several notes flew at him from little nooks and crannies about the room, making Harry snatch them out of the air like snitches. A fat envelope came from somewhere near the woodpile at the back kitchen door, and more money came from the hallway. A fist full of coins also flew at him, from the direction of Snape’s bedroom.

Harry smiled triumphantly.

He left the envelope, which was filled with more Muggle money than he’d ever seen in his life, in the tea mug cabinet, and counted out sixty pounds from the loose notes that had appeared. Harry figured sixty quid was more than enough for what he wanted to buy, but Harry had never been grocery shopping before, and preferred bringing too much money than too little.

…

Upon leaving the house, which Harry locked with a key hanging by the coat hooks inside, he saw that it was just a small part of a much larger building. It was an old stone mill, with rows of windows upstairs, and it looked to have been carved up into apartments like Snape’s. That explained why Harry hadn’t seen any stairs in Snape’s flat – someone else owned the floor above. Harry thought it was quite fitting though, that Snape’s place was tucked down beside the creek, encased by the giant wooden wheel.  Harry preferred enclosed spaces as well, and figured a man who kept himself wrapped up as much as Snape did would be of the same mind-set.

He glanced at himself in the living room window and stumbled back against the stone bridge wall in surprise. His hair was no longer black – it had turned into a light sandy brown – nor did it stand up on all ends. It had been cropped short, and Harry ran his hands over his hair to confirm what he was seeing. His eyes were still green, but they were the hazel-y green that Muggles had, not brilliant grass green.

“What the hell…” Harry muttered, tracing his finger over his forehead, where his scar used to be. A noise from up the road caught his attention, and Harry looked up to see an old woman giving him a peculiar look as she swept her front step.  He gave her a very small smile in return and looked about the rest of the street, keeping his eye out for any strange black dogs. He saw none though, just a small white yappy thing that was being walked by two small girls.

Harry turned back to glance at the house, and felt a sudden and overwhelming pull to go back inside. He wasn’t afraid to be out, and though he was fairly certain that he had seen the same dog that morning as the one in Little Whinging, it wasn’t fear that was making him want to go inside. It was a strange sense of calm.

Ignoring the lady still watching him, Harry unlocked Snape’s front door with the key, noticing that the letterbox on the side of the house was flapping slightly in the wind. Perhaps that was the noise from last night, and Harry really had dreamt up the dog.

The cupboard had a few salvageable vegetables, and Harry found two boxes of powdered soup and noodles on the pantry shelf. He added the vegetables to the pot, and tipped in a can of broth that had been hiding under some tea biscuits. It wouldn’t be the best tasting soup, but it would be warm at least.

Leaving the soup on the stove to slowly cook, Harry took out the little notebook and jotted down his appearance change. He knew that magic could do that, as Hermione had brewed them the polyjuice potion last year, but this wasn’t the same sort of spell. For one thing, Harry knew he’d never forget the taste of the polyjuice, and he was sure he hadn’t had any since arriving at Snape’s.

Wanting to double check, Harry quietly went to the washroom and was confused to find his normal reflection in the mirror. Messy black hair, square jaw and somewhat rounded nose, along with his ever-present scar.

Harry gave a quick check to his hands and legs too, noticing that the Murtlap essence had certainly helped heal Ripper’s cuts and bites. Just as he was rolling down his jeans, Harry’s instinct kicked in and he felt a presence at the door. The Dursleys were not a quiet lot, but his Aunt could be stealthy, and Harry had learned to recognise the change in the air when he was no longer alone.

“Would you care to explain why you left the protected house, Potter?” Snape demanded, his voice gravely and hoarse as he stood in the doorway. He was wearing trousers and a shirt now, though he didn’t look like he was any more awake than he had been at six. “To frolic around in the front garden while Black is on the loose?”

“I was going to get food,” Harry plainly answered, not backing down. “You’re sick. I didn’t know how long you’d be asleep.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed, and he stepped back from the door, pointing at the kitchen.

“I have a cold, Potter. Not some exotic fatal disease,” Snape answered, following him down the hall. “I am perfectly capable of fetching groceries.”

“Well I didn’t know,” Harry muttered, feeling once again like he was in the wrong. “I’ve never been sick before.”

Snape let out a loud barking cough, and Harry winced slightly at how painful it sounded. He walked over to the owl post and stroked Hedwig’s head softly, as a way to calm himself.

“Never been sick?” Snape asked, a sneer only slightly masked by his cough. “I remember brewing pepper-up for the flu that swept through Gryffindor tower last year.”

Snape checked on the soup simmering on the stove, but Harry could tell from the scent that it needed to cook a bit longer.

“The Dursleys didn’t care if I ate dirt when I was little,” Harry shrugged, turning to look at Snape. “Hermione thinks that boosted my immune system, or something like that.”

“Ridiculous,” Snape muttered, holding out his hand and waiting for something. His housecoat floated into the room seconds later, and Harry watched as Snape wrapped it around himself like a cloak.

“Oh,” Harry suddenly said, figuring out that Snape had likely used the same summoning charm that Harry had earlier.

“Here’s your money,” Harry said, pulling notes and coins out of his pocket, and dumping them on the counter. “I’m not quite sure where it all came from, but I didn’t actually go to the store.”

Snape stared between him and the money, before shaking his head.

“How many people saw you?”

Harry gave him a curious look.

“Outside? An old woman up the street, maybe two kids walking a dog.”

Snape nodded, though he looked like he was also rolling his eyes at the same time. Harry wondered if the old lady was the gossip queen of the village.

“I didn’t look like myself, though,” Harry continued in a slightly accusatory tone, standing up straight and speaking directly at Snape. “My hair was short and light brown, and my scar was gone.”

“Yes,” Snape dryly replied, spooning out soup into a bowl. “It's a simple enough charm, Potter. I imagine even your father was able to do it.”

“My…” Harry started. Snape carefully walked to the table with the soup, ignoring Harry's affronted look. “There's a charm that will automatically change my hair when I go outside?”

“Of course,” Snape snapped. The 'you idiot' was left off, but clearly there. “Fetch your own soup if you want some.”

Harry said nothing about being the one to have made the soup, and automatically moved to get his own. Serving himself was second nature, especially in the summer.

“The charm, Potter,” Snape continued, after eating some of the broth, “is a basic level of security within wizarding wards. Much like the polyjuice potion you and your little friends brewed last year, it is able to change your appearance. _Unlike_ the potion, this charm simply changes various features, instead of mimicking.”

Harry was glad he was standing over the pot of soup, because he was quite certain his expression would have cemented his guilt over the polyjuice incident.

“Oh. So the charm is there for kids, who can't do magic on themselves?” Harry asked, bringing his own bowl of soup to the table.

“That's what parents are for, Potter,” Snape grumbled, withdrawing a large handkerchief from his housecoat and giving a hearty blow. Harry imagined a honker as big as Snape's would be a pain to have while sick.

“I wouldn't know, sir,” Harry sarcastically muttered. He twirled his spoon in his soup, not really hungry, but not full enough to avoid eating.

“Have you not learned _anything_ about security?” Snape asked, his eyes glaring at Harry from just under the fringes of his hair.

“Yeah,” Harry answered, suddenly feeling grumpier than normal. Snape kept him off balance, where at least with his relatives he knew mostly what to expect. “I've learned that keeping the Philosopher's Stone under charms in the castle isn’t a good idea.”

Snape narrowed his eyes at Harry as he lifted his spoon from the bowl.

“Your sarcasm is neither appreciated nor desired.”

It wasn’t quite a demand to stop, and Harry found it completely bizarre that he was sitting in his Professor’s kitchen at home, eating soup that he’d made, and not really getting in trouble for mouthing back.

“I was just going to go to the closest shop,” Harry finally muttered, not quite understanding why Snape was so annoyed.

Snape’s spoon clattered to the table, and he let out a hoarse cough before speaking.

“Potter. I am not a very happy man at the moment. Can you fathom why that is?”

Harry glanced up at his Professor, and tried not to wince at the glare he was getting from Snape’s reddened eyes.

“Uh, because you’re sick?" Harry said, running through possible reasons that he could say without getting hexed.

"No,” Snape growled, blowing into his handkerchief. “Imagine, Mr Potter, if one of your duties as a professor is to keep the Boy who Lived alive," Snape said, gripping his spoon as if it was his wand.

"It sort of is," Harry said, without thinking. “I mean. I don’t want to die, you see.”

Snape’s fingers twitched around the spoon, and Harry subtly moved his chair a little further back from the table, out of physical range.

“And yet you left my house, without knowing where you were, or even if the enchantments on the house would allow you to return,” Snape ground out.

“I…” Harry thought, trying to remember what he’d been thinking. It had just seemed obvious – Snape was almost out of food, sick and asleep, and Harry was hungry. “I didn’t know you could hide a house,” Harry finished, shaking his head.

“Of course you can hide a house,” Snape disdainfully said. He sneezed twice, barely missing his bowl of soup with the handkerchief, and Harry made a face. “This is why you are getting those lessons, Potter. Your knowledge of magic is downright appalling, and your blind faith in people concerns me.”

Bristling, Harry crossed his arms over his chest. It was one thing for Snape to insult him during class, when he couldn’t fight back, but Harry wasn’t going to let him have free rein during the summer.

“I don’t have blind faith in people,” Harry argued, keeping his arms up as a way to fortify himself. “Draco Malfoy was one of the first people I met when I became a wizard, and I don’t trust him at all.”

Snape put his elbow on the table, his palm supporting his head, and still managed to look menacing.

“Rubeus Hagrid was the first person you met. A half giant with a pink umbrella who appeared in the middle of the night to whisk you away to some magical school you’d never heard of nor believed in. And you willingly went, didn’t you, Potter? Without a second thought.”

Harry flushed, remembering how happy he was that night to just be getting away from the Dursleys. Going on the offensive, Harry steeled himself to glare back at Snape.

“All right. Tell me why you’re giving me lessons, then."

Snape’s lip twitched at being given an order.

“Excuse me?” he softly asked, though the gravelly throat ruined some of the threatening effect.

“I’m thinking before acting,” Harry slowly said. “So tell me why you want to train me, or I’ll go back to the Dursleys.”

Something ugly lit up in Snape’s eyes, and Harry braced for a scathing response.

"Oh will you? I suppose you think you're too talented and lucky to require defensive tutoring?"

"No," Harry argued back. "I’ve never thought that."

"And yet you question the assistance of a Professor who has already saved your life..."

"A Professor who hates me," Harry cut in, feeling petulant. "Who thought I was growing up as a spoiled brat instead of a …a house elf.”

"I refuse to get into a pissing match over horrible childhoods," Snape snapped.

"Right. Fine," Harry said, pulling his knees up as he sat in the chair. "But if you want me to stay here and learn Defence, tell me why I should trust you."

Snape looked like he was about to burst a vein over his eye, but Harry kept his gaze firm.

"Is it not enough to want to stay alive, boy?" Snape growled.

"No," Harry simply answered. "You loathed me from the moment I came to Hogwarts. The Dursleys hated me too, when I first showed up. But they have to take care of me. You don’t.”

Snape had a mouthful of soup again, and Harry knew that was likely the only reason that he’d not been told to get to work scrubbing cauldrons. He felt a flash of triumph, and then furrowed his eyebrows.

“You knew Aunt Petunia…” Harry said, remembering what his Aunt had said the night before. “You’re not … you’re not related, are you?”

Harry could feel the blood leaving his face, and for once was glad to see Snape's familiar expression of disgust.

“Absolutely not,” Snape answered. He stood up from his chair and swept toward the counter, but looked unsteady on his feet as he did so.

“But you do know Aunt Petunia,” Harry continued, studying Snape. He noticed the slight flinch of Snape's shoulders, which as evident even through the man's thick housecoat. “Which means you also knew my Mum.”

Snape flipped the kitchen cupboard open and rooted through it until he pulled out a phial of something. He knocked it back in one swing, and Harry bit back a smile as the steam escaping Snape's ears made his hair flutter.

“I knew your mother,” Snape admitted, and it was exactly that. An admission. Harry wondered what had happened between his Mum and Snape for Snape to sound so...broken over mentioning her.

“And,” Snape continued strongly, seeming to rally with the pepper up, “she would approve of you being taught how to defend yourself. She gave her life for you, Potter. It would be extremely poor form to piss that away.”

“I'm not pissing anything away,” Harry immediately countered. “I don't actually want to die, Professor.”

Snape was still facing the window, looking outside at whatever was in the trees across the river.

“Then it is now your turn to prove it,” Snape answered. He turned finally, and looked no less imposing in his housecoat as he crossed his arms and stared at Harry. Despite that, Harry pushed a little bit more and asked his final question.

“Are you doing this for my mother? Because you knew her?”

Snape's upper lip curled, and Harry prepared for a scathing comment about being nosy. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia certainly didn't permit questions, and Harry wasn't quite sure why he was willing to take the risk of asking with Snape, of all people.

A smile took over suddenly, an ugly sort of half smile that Harry had seen before on one of the old Christmas cartoon specials Dudley had watched as a child. _How the Grinch Stole Christmas_ , Harry remembered.

“Perhaps I am training you, Mr Potter, because I know precisely how much your survival will irritate your remaining relatives,” Snape said, putting the phial down in the sink and looking oddly happy.

“And defeating Voldemort is just a bonus?” Harry automatically answered, eyes widening slightly once he realised what he'd said.

“A larger one than you could ever know,” Snape muttered, glancing downward at his left arm. Harry thought at first he was going to check the time, but there was a clock right beside Snape and Harry had never seen Snape wear a watch before.

“I’m not staying here for the rest of the summer, am I?” Harry then asked, realising just how small Snape’s house was. As … nice …  as Snape seemed to be outside of the school, Harry was pretty sure that they'd end up killing each other in such small quarters. Fortunately, Snape looked just as disturbed with that idea as Harry.

“Absolutely not. I will attempt to contact Miss Granger’s parents this afternoon,” Snape answered, coughing into his handkerchief. His cheeks were flushed, likely from the soup, but the edges of his face were deathly pale and he had a slight sway to him as he stood leaning against the counter.

Harry nodded and finished up his soup. He wondered if he should tell Snape how sick the man looked, but reconsidered it after a moment. Many students called Snape a greasy git and dungeon bat, and Harry suspected telling him that he looked like death probably wouldn’t go over very well.

“Are you going back to sleep?” Harry asked, picking up his bowl to put in the sink.

He didn't get a chance to hear Snape's answer before a bright flash erupted in the kitchen. It took form around the spots in Harry’s eyes, revealing a silvery white phoenix that looked very similar to Fawkes.

Snape was scowling at the bird, and Harry wondered if it had come from Dumbledore.

“Severus, your order of pogrebin hair will be delivered at one to the café. I have also heard a very strange rumour at the Ministry. I wonder if we could meet to discuss things?”

The message was given in Dumbledore’s normal soft tone, but even Harry could tell there was an order hidden in the polite invitation.

Harry watched with unhidden curiosity as a grouchy look formed on Snape’s face, as the man seemed to be making a decision.

“I am about to inform the Headmaster of your whereabouts, Potter,” Snape suddenly said. “Unless you have any objection?”

The last was said with sarcasm and a raised eyebrow and Harry looked at Snape in confusion.

“Doesn’t Dumbledore just know? I mean, last year he knew I went to the Weasleys…”

“The owls know. The Headmaster is not, no matter how much he enjoys the illusion, omnipotent. And so we begin our training, Mr Potter.”

Snape held his hand up for a row of loud sneezes, earning him a displeased hoot and glare from Hedwig.

“Do you want the Headmaster to know where you are?”

Harry blinked a few times at that question, before sitting reaching out to smooth Hedwig's ruffled feathers. Did he? Dumbledore had always seemed a kind and grandfatherly man, who wanted the best for Harry. Then again, he’d been the one to send Harry to the Dursleys, and he’d been the one in first year to let Harry risk his life for the stone. Dumbledore had ensured that Harry knew how to ask for help in the Chamber though, and he had also trusted both Harry and Ron to save Ginny.

Harry twisted his lower lip, flummoxed, before looking at Snape.

“I don’t know. I don’t know what the right answer is.”

Snape allowed a small curl of his lips into a smile, which unfortunately did not look very good with his reddened nose.

“What do you think will happen if he knows you're here?” Snape asked, tapping his fingers against his forearm.

“Nothing, really. Except I don't know if students are allowed at teachers' homes,” Harry shrugged.

“They usually are not,” Snape wryly said. “But your Aunt gave very explicit permission.”

“Yeah. Hang on,” Harry said, shaking his head once, and then staring back at Snape. “Are you saying that I shouldn't always tell Dumbledore where I am? Or what's going on?”

Snape sighed, and rubbed his temple as he poured himself a glass of water.

“Yes,” Snape finally answered. “I trust the Headmaster with my life, but that does not mean he makes the best decisions regarding all that comes before him.”

Before Harry could say anything else, Snape flicked his wand forward, and a silvery white doe shot forth.

“Whoa!”

The silvery doe walked gracefully in a circle, giving Harry a curious look, before returning to Snape. She nudged his hand with her nose, as if trying to make him feel slightly better.

“I will retrieve the order. Potter is safe, and will be removed to the Grangers. No discussion is necessary.”

Snape then sneezed twice, and Harry wasn't sure if the sneezes would be delivered with the message, but he smirked, knowing that they were an effective way to tell Dumbledore that Snape wasn't up to a chat.

He watched Snape pet the doe's head, and then heard him give her the Headmaster's name.

“Albus Dumbledore.”

The doe gave a short nod, and trod silently to the door, where she materialised into air.

“So that's, that's like a private howler?” Harry asked, staring at the spot where the bright doe had been standing. He missed the considering look Snape was giving him.

“I suppose it could be considered as such. Be ready to leave in twenty minutes,” Snape said, slipping out of the kitchen and heading for the washroom. Harry looked at the clock and saw it was approaching twelve-thirty already.

“Can't I just stay here and play the Nintendo?” Harry muttered, making a note in his notebook to ask Snape why he had a bloody Super Nintendo to begin with.

 

…..

 

Snape had made himself somewhat presentable in the twenty-minute warning time. He'd put on a black business jacket, which wasn't quite the same as the frock coat he normally wore, but was a bit longer than fashionable for most Muggles. It gave him a distinguished and business-like look, but also allowed him to blend in with wizards. The weather, which had been windy but tolerable in the morning, had now decided to drizzle and Snape had done himself up against the chill.

“Your name is John,” Snape said, holding Harry by the arm as they manoeuvred up the street. There were plenty of people milling about, though no one seemed to pay Snape or Harry any mind. Harry tried to flatten his hair as they walked – as soon as he'd stepped out of Snape's house the charm had shortened his hair almost to Arthur Weasley's length, and turned it into the same sandy brown colour as before. Snape had done a vision spell as well, so Harry's glasses were folded up into his pocket.

“You are my nephew, and you are going to sit quietly at the front bar while wait for my order.”

“Really? John?” Harry dryly asked, scratching his neck. Snape had given him an old green jumper to put on, and the wool was itchy. “No one is going to know me here.”

 “John isn’t in anyway related to your real name. Another lesson; don’t ever get cutesy or smart when choosing aliases,” Snape grumpily said, steering them toward a small Muggle cafe called 'Honey Brew'. “And you have no idea where we even apparated to.”

Harry supposed he was right, though he was fairly certain that Snape wouldn't intentionally put him into danger. Once again Harry was reminded of how Dumbledore had been so proud of him when he'd kept Quirrell from getting the Philosopher's Stone.

The inside was warm and full of trinkets and cheap decorative things all over the place. There was a fireplace in the back, and the tables all had different tablecloths on them. Snape steered Harry to the front cash, where there was a small little strip of counter and a few bar stools. Harry tried to look around, but Snape blocked his view of the rest of the cafe.

“Sit,” Snape hissed, withdrawing a Muggle notebook and pen, an identical notebook to the one Harry had taken earlier from Snape's kitchen table.

A woman dressed in an alarming amount of flower-printed fabric sidled up, and asked what the two of them would like.

“Coffee, please,” Harry boldly asked. He purposefully didn't raise his eyes, so he wouldn't see the look Snape was giving him.

“With milk and sugar,” Snape continued, fishing out a five pound note from his pocket to give the woman. “John, your homework.”

Harry miserably took the notebook as the woman walked off to make the coffee.

“Write down everything you can remember about your altercations with Tom Riddle,” Snape said, before coughing into his sleeve.

“Everything?” Harry asked, looking up. He'd already met Voldemort a few times, and they were not times Harry particularly wanted to remember.

“Everything,” Snape repeated, tapping the notebook with his finger. Harry scrunched his face up at that, not wanting any of Snape's germs near him.

Snape then left, weaving through the tables and sitting down near the back. He had chosen an empty table, facing the door, and pretended to look over the menu.  Snape's hair was also shorter, in an indistinguishably normal haircut that most Muggle men in their thirties wore.

Another man, who Harry curiously noted did not come in from the front door, but instead from the back, joined him quickly. This man was wearing a shockingly bright red shirt under his black overcoat, which Harry thought was rather strange as it was very noticeable. He also had long dirty black hair with blue streaks in it, a plethora of gaudy jewellery on his fingers, and carried a package that was wrapped in plain brown paper and string.

He was getting quite a few looks from the other patrons in the shop.

“Hi!”

A young boy no older than six climbed onto the seat next to Harry, dressed inexplicably like Spiderman, and pointed a foam spider web sprayer at him.

“I’m Spidermaaaaan!” the boy happily told Harry. Over the boy’s head was his mother, who was giving Harry a tired smile.

“You could be Spiderman too,” the boy added, putting his toy web shooter up on the bar top.

Harry shook his head in bemusement, a small grin flitting over his lips.

“Well I could have,” Harry assured, folding his notebook closed. “But I don’t look as good in tights, you see. So I became a wizard instead.”

“Wizards are cool too!” the boy beamed. He chattered happily to Harry as his mother picked up their takeaway pastries, and gave Harry an enthusiastic wave when they left. Harry waved back, trying to imagine Aunt Petunia’s reaction to letting either him or Dudley out of the house dressed as a super hero when they were children. Dudley, maybe, but even his Aunt had her limits out in public.

Harry glanced back at Snape’s table, and noticed that both Snape and the man seemed to be ending their conversation. The oddly wrapped parcel had been slipped into a Tesco’s shopping bag, which Snape held tightly in his hands.

Snape nodded once more at the man, and then turned to leave the café. He glared at Harry; wordlessly demanding that Harry came along, and only paused at the café door when the man called out to him.

“Graphorn and Runespoor are in demand now,” the man casually said, paying his bill with a large amount of Muggle money. He didn’t seem to care about getting change, nor if the Muggles heard him talking about potion ingredients, and also walked toward the front door. “Large shipment headed for Albania, if you want in.”

Snape regarded the man with an impassive face, though Harry had noticed that Snape’s fingers were twitching, and his skin was much paler than it had been when they’d arrived at the café.

“Not interested,” Snape slowly said. “Not at this time.”

The man shrugged, and a second later had slipped out the door into the afternoon pedestrian crowd.

“Take the bag, John,” Snape roughly said, holding tightly onto the door handle. Harry grabbed it, slightly concerned at the near-instant flush that had lit up Snape’s previously white cheeks.

“Are you all right, sir?” Harry asked, following after Snape as they walked toward the alleyway they’d arrived in. Snape didn’t answer, and Harry reached out to steady him as Snape’s gait wavered.

“Fine. I merely require water,” Snape said, and though he seemed to be trying for anger, Harry saw that his expression was slack and the man had shut his eyes. Letting Snape lean against the alley wall, Harry withdrew his wand and looked around to see if there were any Muggles watching. None were, so Harry stuck his wand out.

Big purple bus, big purple bus, big purple bus…

BANG.

The bus skidded to a stop inches from Harry’s feet, and a different spotty teenager emerged.

“Welcome to the Knight Bus, Emergency Transport for the Stranded Witch or Wizard.”

“Hi,” Harry said, cutting off whatever the rest of the speech was. “Can you help me get him on the bus?”

The teen gave Harry a dubious look, before shrugging and stepping down to help. They managed to get Snape shovelled into one of the beds near the front of the bus, and in between mutterings about dehydration, Harry got the village name out of Snape as well.

“Lower Tarrow,” Harry told the attendant. He had enough change for both tickets, and paid for hot chocolate too in the fleeting thought that it might make Snape feel better. With the first bang of the bus taking off though, Harry just concentrated on not splashing the hot liquid everywhere.

After three stops and a mostly successful attempt at getting Snape to drink something, they stopped outside a dingy pub in north London and picked up a rather scraggly looking character. Harry watched from Snape’s bed, where he was perched on the end partially to keep from falling, and partially to keep Snape from tipping over.

“James,” the man said, in answer to what his name was. The attendant didn’t seem much more interested in him, but Harry was. The man was dressed in a Muggle suit, but it was slightly too short for him at the cuffs and ankles. Harry wondered why he’d not done magic to fix it, like Mrs Weasley would have. As the man haggled on a price with Muggle money, Harry looked over the rest of his features. Long red hair that was unnaturally straight, an uncomfortably tight shirt collar, buttoned up all the way as if to hide something, and strange tan lines on his fingers. Harry wondered if the man normally wore rings, and had removed them for the ride.

“Where to then, James?” the teenage conductor asked, as the man took a spot closest to the back door.

“Weybridge,” James grumbled, pulling his sleeves down in a futile attempt to cover his wrists. Harry kept his head down, idly writing down in the notebook the two ingredients the man in the shop had mentioned. Snape was sitting beside him, elbows on his knees, supporting his head, and his face looked very flushed.

“Weybridge is less than ten miles from your relatives,” Snape said, his voice low enough to not be overheard.

“I know,” Harry quietly acknowledged. “He looks like he’s in disguise, as well.”

Snape glanced up, and Harry could see that his eyes were red and watery, his nose was an angry red colour, and he looked miserable.

“Your training will start immediately,” Snape muttered. His arm was propped on the bed, holding him up, but Harry suspected that Snape very much wanted to lie down.

The bus lurched forward at a startling speed, knocking most of the beds back a foot or two. They were swerving through little villages, somehow avoiding Muggle cars, bicycles, and fence posts.

“And you will pay for making me ride this ridiculous contraption,” Snape threatened.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Snape seemed to regain a bit of strength once they returned to the house, and stalked into the kitchen to drink two giant glasses of water.

“Are you all right, sir?” Harry asked, eyeing him warily. While he didn't exactly like Snape, the man had been somewhat tolerable over the last day. Harry also didn't know whom he'd call for help if Snape got really sick, as Dumbledore didn't even know where they were.

“Dehydrated,” Snape answered, narrowing his eyes at Harry. “You honestly have no idea.”

Harry shrugged, feeling stupidly self-conscious. He couldn't remember getting sick as a child, and he knew if he had been, his Aunt wouldn't have made a big deal about it.

“I _have_ been to the hospital wing,” Harry said, watching Snape as he pulled Muggle medicine boxes out of the cabinet beside the fridge. “Missing bones, unconscious. Stuff like that.”

Snape gave him a dirty look, before dumping the tablets from three different boxes into a mortar. The tablets were crushed violently, in between a pause for a hearty round of sneezes, and the powder from a packet mix was added. A few things from the table where the cauldrons stood were floated over, and Harry saw that they were thrown in too.

“Wizards do not have a sufficient means to cure the common cold,” Snape said, tapping out the crushed mixture into a mug. “Pepper-up is used to mask the effects, but the body is still weak while it fights off infection.”

Harry watched as Snape added hot water to the mixture, making a face as he did so. That definitely was not going to taste good.

“Is that your own cure?” Harry asked.

Snape sniffed the mug with disdain, as if it was a potion Neville or Harry had brewed.

“This is likely poison,” Snape calmly said, sipping the mixture. Harry's eyebrows rose into his hairline, but Snape didn't seem to be concerned about what he was drinking.

“However, it will get rid of this blasted cold.”

“Oh,” Harry said, unsure of how he was supposed to react. Snape was giving him a rather smug look, and Harry had very little doubt that Snape knew exactly what was in the mixture and if it would actually kill him.

A single box floated from one of the back cabinets in the room, over to Harry's spot at the table. It was an old box with smoothed corners from being handled often, and there was a scrap of paper over the original label that said _bezoars_.

“The Dark Lord may or may not attempt to poison you, if given the opportunity, and it would behove you to know how to defend yourself.”

“Great,” Harry muttered, opening the box and peeking inside. There were several black lumps inside, with little bits of leaf and hair stuck to them, and they looked like something one of Mrs Figg’s cats had brought up. Absolutely disgusting.

“Those are bezoars, Potter, and if after two years you cannot tell me what they are used for, you are in for a very long evening of essay writing and cauldron scrubbing,” Snape warned.

“It’s an antidote, _sir_ ,” Harry grouchily answered, dropping the lid back on the box and crossing his arms. He’d spent three weeks reading ahead for potions class after his disastrous first lesson, but it hadn’t been enough to get on Snape’s good side, and Harry had long ago stopped trying.

“Very good, Mr Potter,” Snape said, with muted surprise. He finished the revolting mixture in the mug, and sat back down at the table where his water was. “They are not effective in all cases of poisoning, but in most, and do not require a special form of potion for ingestion. One may simply shove a bezoar down the throat of another. I do hope you're taking notes, Potter, and I'm not simply wasting my breath.”

“I am,” Harry muttered, pulling parchment out of his pocket to write the information down, He unfolded what was there and remembered the Ministry's letter.

“Oh, Hedwig brought this this morning. I haven't answered it yet,” Harry said, handing over the letter.

Snape gave it a cursory glance and rolled his eyes.

“Burn it.”

He glanced up at the clock over the kitchen, before taking another drink of water.

“Burn their letter? Won't they know?” Harry asked. Between last year's incident with Dobby's magic, and this year’s almost forgiveness for blowing up his Aunt, Harry didn't know what to make of the Ministry. Completely ignoring them had never crossed his mind.

“Potter,” Snape said, crossing his arms. His nose was still rather red, from blowing it so often, and it gave him a rather comical look. “What will happen if you inform the Ministry of your whereabouts?”

Harry drummed his fingers on the table as he thought. If Dumbledore knew where he was, and there was trouble, he'd be able to come help Harry. But Harry wasn't quite sure that the Ministry would step in all that quickly. It’d be poor form if they let the Boy who Lived get hurt, but Harry figured that was the extent of their concern. The Ministry was very official and a bit unnerving, and Harry wasn't exactly sure why they needed to know where he was at all times.

“Everyone will know where I am?” Harry asked.

“Not everyone,” Snape swiftly said, his voice already sounding uncongested. “However, it is not up to the Ministry of Magic to monitor every citizen's location.”

“Right,” Harry said, nodding. “Especially if I'd just left for a two week...” Harry almost said vacation, but then remembered where he was.

“Excursion,” Snape supplied, a smirk on his face. He glanced at the clock once more, and then leaned over the table to the box in front of Harry. The lid of the box was flicked off, and Harry nearly gagged as Snape chose a bezoar and popped it into his mouth.

“Eugh,” Harry grimaced.

Snape gave him a sharp look as he stood from the table.

“Some of us mere mortals do get sick, Potter, and do not like it in the least,” he said, coughing loudly. “It is now two. Finish writing out your encounters with the Dark Lord, and then you may play more Nintendo.”

Harry blinked, pausing as he reached for the pen that was keeping his page in the notebook.

“I believe I told you I’d know exactly what you touched,” Snape commented, raising his eyebrow. His voice was already starting to sound less congested, but he looked unsteady on his feet.

“We need more food,” Harry said, choosing not to comment on his game playing. “If you want me to make dinner.”

Snape gave him an odd look, though he was blinking with exaggeration, as if in effort to keep his eyes open.

“Half-five, the shop will still be open,” Snape answered. He left the room before Harry could add anything, and Harry hoped he’d made it to his bed before passing out. The bezoar might have neutralised whatever poisonous mix Snape had concocted, but it appeared that the medicinal effects were still kicking in.

….

Harry’s Nintendo character, Toad, was a spry little racer. It didn’t make up for the fact that Harry was pants at the game, but he was at least making some measure of progress. He’d not come in last in the previous four races, and even placed second in the final race. Harry was getting tired of playing though, and restless as he could hear the sounds of another summer rainstorm moving in.

Walking about the living room, Harry neatly folded up his clothes and repacked his trunk. He disliked sleeping out in the open, not only because he preferred a smaller darker area, but also because it felt disorganized to have his bed and things right out in the sitting room. Maybe if Snape wasn’t sending him off to Hermione’s that night he’d ask to kip on the floor in Snape’s office. The office was crowded, but at least he’d have a door he could shut.

Harry nearly kicked his trunk when he glanced at his Broom Servicing Kit that Hermione had given him for his birthday. Hermione was in France with her parents, Harry remembered. He’d have to stay here at least until either the Grangers or the Weasleys returned. Harry tried not to think of how Snape would react to that news.

Bored of the games, and not interested in doing his summer homework, Harry pulled out the two notebooks he now had. One on his observations, and one on his memories of his encounters with Voldemort. It really had been like meeting two different people – even though Tom Riddle had been given up-to-date information from Ginny, the two Voldemorts had been each arrogant, threatening, and cunning in their own ways.

Harry remembered standing in front of the Mirror of Erised, looking horrified at the snake face in the back of Quirrell’s head. And the taunting voice, telling him that though his parents had been brave to protect him, that they’d begged for mercy in the end. Had they? They were both Gryffindors; if they were so brave, hadn’t they fought?

Harry flipped over to the next few pages, and rereading what he’d written was like plunging back into the Chamber of Secrets. Tom Riddle, the younger Hogwarts Prefect, had been so arrogant down in the Chamber. He wasn’t even fully human yet, but he’d been far more insufferable and sure of himself than even Malfoy was.

He hadn’t written down everything Riddle had said in the Chamber, as the teenager had never bloody shut up and Harry couldn’t remember it all, but the key words were there. He wondered what Snape would make of Harry’s memories, before smiling at the book. In a note at the bottom of the page, Harry wrote: ‘Talks a lot. Thinks highly of himself. More time to escape?’

One point that Riddle had brought up, however, was something that had been on Harry’s mind since that first year in the infirmary, when Dumbledore had told him that the truth was a powerful and dangerous thing. What exactly had happened that night in Godric’s Hollow? And why had he been the one that was targeted? Had Voldemort been in the habit of murdering families and children, and they’d been targeted for no reason?

Harry felt a bit sick wondering, but guilt overpowered the uneasiness. His parents had died to protect him, and in the two years he’d been in the wizarding world, Harry hadn’t lifted up a single book to see if he could find out why they’d had to. Everyone else seemed to have a theory, and they all looked at him just a slight bit differently than anyone else. Some with reverence, some with curiosity, some with jealousy, and some, like Snape, with disdain. Even his Aunt Petunia had a special scornful look, one that was especially nasty on the 30th of January. It had taken Harry a few years to work out that that was his mother’s birthday, and even longer to realise that the look was born out of anger that he’d survived, and his Mum hadn’t.

Rain started to softly pelt at the window, and Harry turned on one of the standing lamps in the room as he took three books off the shelf and back to the folding couch. One was a general history of magic, one was about important wizarding events over the last two hundred and fifty years, and the third was a folder that he’d found sandwiched between the history books, that seemed to be full of newspaper clippings.

The history books were blandly generic, giving Harry a clear picture of Voldemort’s quest for power and domination, but providing frustratingly little information about his defeat. It seemed that no one really knew what had happened that night, and all that was written down was that Voldemort had gone to the Potter’s house in Godric’s Hollow, cast the Killing Curse three times, and on the last time, suffered death in the course of a rebound.

The newspaper clippings were another matter. The rain picked up and the room grew darker, but Harry barely noticed as he read through clipping after clipping of _The Daily Prophet, The Quibbler_ , and some newspaper called _The Nightly Courier_. Unlike the history books, the newspaper clippings were raw stories of the death and destruction wrought by some group called the Death Eaters in the first wizarding war. More than once Harry found an article written about non-purebloods in wizarding villages being terrorized, of Muggles being taunted by magic, and most disturbingly, of people going missing. Often without a trace, and there were never follow-up articles about the disappeared having been found.

Oddly, Harry also found a clipped paragraph about new teachers starting at Hogwarts, and someone named Trelawney had been underlined. There was another article stapled to that one, about a rowdy night in a pub in Hogsmeade, but Harry didn’t bother reading that one. Hogsmeade was the village outside of Hogwarts, and Harry had a fleeting sense of hope as he searched his trunk. It only took a minute to unearth the permission form he’d received in the mail though, and despite his strongest wish, it still remained unsigned.

He folded it back up nicely and returned it to the trunk, planning to ask the Grangers to sign if he ended up staying there for the last week of the summer, after they’d returned from France. Harry then continued with the newspaper clippings, skipping over most of the celebratory ones after Voldemort had disappeared. Harry didn’t want to read about the celebrations surrounding his parents’ deaths.

One of the last articles in the folder was a large one, and Harry blinked at the mad face of Sirius Black snarling back at him. The still Muggle photos on the Durlsey’s telly hadn’t done Black any justice, and Harry’s eyes were riveted to the strong grip Black seemed to have on his prisoner’s number board, almost as if he were going to snap it in half.

“Black Kills 13 With One Spell!” Harry read aloud. It was a front-page sensational article, but Harry was riveted as he read about the explosion, the madness, and the laughter of Black as Aurors arrested him on the scene. The paper offered a few theories for Black’s sudden mental snap, but one caught Harry’s eye in particular. Black wanted to be second in command of the Death Eater organization, and hadn’t cared who had to die as he worked his way up. To get there, Black had betrayed the Potters. Sirius Black had been their friend.

“Not exactly a pleasant read on a rainy afternoon,” Snape suddenly said, standing in the hall and putting his jacket on.

“He was their friend,” Harry said, looking up and blinking slowly. It was just half five, but Harry hadn’t even noticed the clock in the room. The small smirk that had been on Snape's face slid into an expression of blankness.

“He was their best friend?” Harry asked, a slight question in his voice because the newspaper article hadn't gone that deeply into detail, but Harry figured that if Snape knew his father so well, he'd likely known the 'friend' Sirius Black too.

“Much like yourself and Mr Weasley,” Snape answered, face still carefully blank. His nose and cheeks had gone back to their normal pallid colour, and his voice was no longer clouded from congestion.

“But, how could anyone...” Harry trailed off, staring back down at the picture of Sirius Black. Voldemort had killed his parents, but it seemed that this was the man that had made it possible.

“Sirius Black proved even as a boy that he was capable of spilling his dearest friends' most dangerous secrets,” Snape disdainfully said, picking Harry's zip jumper off the front hallway hook and throwing it at him. “And once he is returned to Azkaban, he will continue paying for it for the rest of his life.”

“But he killed them!” Harry said, yanking his jumper off the couch and pulling it on. He nearly tripped over the corner of his trunk as he walked to the front door. “He can't just sit in prison and keep living. My parents are dead!”

“And what are you going to do about it?” Snape demanded, flicking off the light as he opened the door. The rain hadn't let up at all, but Snape had a few old umbrellas in a stand under the coat hooks on the wall. “A thirteen year old boy going after a mass-murderer?”

“Well, that's what you're training me for, isn't it?” Harry sullenly asked, stepping outside and scowling at the weather. Now that Snape was back to his normal grouchy self, Harry wasn't worried about encountering any spooky dogs outside.

“I am training you to fight You-Know-Who,” Snape hissed, pushing Harry forward on the path toward the main road. “Black is not your fight and if I find you have gone looking for him, you will be facing detention every week for the entire school year.”

Harry clutched tightly to his umbrella, keeping it close to the top of his head to not only protect him from the rain, but to avoid having to look at Snape.

“So why is it okay for me to fight one and not the other?” Harry glumly asked.

The answer didn't come for a few minutes, when they'd already walked past five houses and were approaching the small roundabout in the centre of the village. There wasn’t a grocer’s shop in Lower Tarrow, as Harry discovered, but there was a sort of general shop on the other end of the main road. It was only a ten-minute walk from Snape’s house, which was on the east end of the village. They passed a few people on their way, mostly older people who were out working in their front gardens. Almost all paused to look at Harry, then Snape, then back to Harry and he realised that this was the sort of village in which everyone knew everyone. When they arrived to the centre of the town, and Harry saw a sign that said ‘Welcome to Lower Tarrow, Population 64’, he knew he was right.

“Because fighting Voldemort has never been something you’ve had a choice in,” Snape finally said, in a low voice. Harry didn't miss the name usage. Snape was one of those people that never referred to Voldemort by his real name, preferring You-Know-Who, or, oddly, the Dark Lord.

Harry pondered Snape's answer, but before he could really think of what to say in reply, they'd reached a small grocer's shop that looked to also sell souvenirs and petrol.

“Choose things you'll eat for the next few days, _John_ ,” Snape said, not looking at Harry as he opened the door. “As you neglected to mention that the Grangers are on holiday.”

Embarrassed, Harry pushed past Snape and didn't make eye contact.

“I forgot,” he muttered.

The general shop was fairly well stocked, and Harry picked up a box of cereal that he liked, along with a packet of crisps and a few other things. Snape was choosing vegetables and more soup ingredients, but Harry didn’t mind. He’d never had a lot of sweets as a child, and didn’t much crave them now. He’d smiled at the elderly woman eyeing him curiously by the shelf with biscuits, and then when he met Snape in queue to pay, had a small second of panic.

The cashier seemed to have a little question or comment for everyone he was ringing up, and Harry realised that the cashier would have a question for him too. While Snape had given him an identity – Nephew John – Harry scrambled to think of what John was like.

During his summers and when he was younger, Harry had often made up identities for himself when he was out playing alone. Just a game he had, pretending to be someone else. Anyone but Harry Potter. And now he was faced with the game again, but this time it was sort of real, as he was at Snape’s house for protection and however he acted was surely something Snape was going to grade him on in his Defence lessons.

“H’llo there,” the cashier said, starting to ring up Snape and Harry’s food. He’d nodded to Snape, but Harry was obviously the more interesting one, as he was new to the village.

“Hi,” Harry answered, concentrating on the total on the register. Snape was standing silently beside Harry, his long black hair now brown and cut short, making him look less like a wizard and more like a Muggle. Harry took the silence as confirmation that Snape was testing him.

“Here for the summer then?” the man asked. The cashier appeared to be in his late forties, and while he looked nice enough, he looked like the sort of man who had never had any aspirations to leave a village like Lower Tarrow.

Harry shrugged, and gave an obvious glance to Snape.

“Probably. I don’t get to make the plans.”

Harry saw a flash of a smirk from Snape, and reached forward to take the bags of food.

“Have there been any stray dogs in the village, lately?” Snape suddenly asked, and Harry’s fingers froze around the handles of the shopping bags.

“Just Sparky, that little rat dog that Mrs Marlenson never keeps locked up,” the cashier said, smiling knowingly as he handed over Snape’s change. “Though last night I thought I heard a larger dog barking down your end, but it was probably Tennyson’s old hound. Deaf as a post, too.”

“Most likely,” Snape responded, drawing out the syllables in a way that Harry knew meant that the man was completely wrong.

“Thank you,” Snape said, lifting up the one light bag that Harry had left him and nodding toward the door. “John.”

…

Harry sat quietly at the kitchen table as Snape put the food away. The rain was still going steady, and though the room was fairly warm, Harry kept his jumper on. He had his notebooks in front of him, and had added one sentence. _'Sirius Black was their friend.'_

“Am I here for the rest of the summer?” Harry asked, wondering how he'd get his schoolbooks for next year.

“It would seem so,” Snape answered, inspecting a package of biscuits that had been in the back of cupboard.

“Could I sleep in the office, then?” Harry pushed, not looking at Snape. Usually asking directly was how he managed to get a few things at the Dursleys, but Snape was impossible to intimidate.

“Something wrong with the chesterfield, Potter?” Snape asked, his snide tone covering the perceived insult.

“No,” Harry immediately answered. “But, if I'm here for the next three weeks, it's better if I'm out of the way, isn't it?”

Snape took some meat pies out of the freezer and started pressing buttons on the stove.

“What an interesting choice of words, Mr Potter,” Snape considered.

…

The rest of the night passed quietly, and Harry was given old textbooks to study. They were first and second year Defence Against the Dark Arts books, and to Harry's amusement, the inside pages had been scribbled all over. Eleven and twelve year old Severus Snape had apparently been a fairly studious Slytherin, but had also been fairly disparaging with his remarks against the author and professors he'd had.

Not much had changed with the adult Snape, but Harry wasn't dumb enough to voice that comment aloud.

After Harry had gone to the washroom to prepare for bed, he'd stopped outside the picture of the house on the wall, staring at it.

“Is this an actual place?” Harry asked, watching as one man seemed to spend a few minutes pondering in front of the shabby row house.

“Of course it's a place,” Snape answered, rolling his eyes as he left the office. “And those are real people walking past it.”

He walked down the hall to the living room, and Harry stared harder at the photo, poking the man loitering in front of the house.

“How does that work?” Harry asked.

“Security spell,” Snape said, not giving any further answers. He went back into the office, carrying the blankets that had been on the chesterfield. Harry peered into the office and found that a small folding bed had been set up there. Harry hadn't seen Snape walking through the house with it, so he assumed it had been transfigured from something.

“Fetch your trunk,” Snape ordered, tossing the blankets on the folding bed. Harry smiled, noting that the papers in the office had been tidied, the blinds had been fully drawn to block out any light, and Harry's two notebooks were on the desk.

By the time he'd lugged his stuff into the office, Snape had cleared space in front of one of his bookcases for Harry's trunk.

“I want the books read by the end of summer,” Snape said, crossing his arms as he watched Harry sit on the bed. It was surprisingly comfortable for a fold out bed, and it had a nookish type feel as it was nestled against bookcases and the side of a small armchair.

“A list of skills you believe you need work on, and a list of offensive spells you know. Have it ready for tomorrow.”

Harry nodded, reaching for one of the notebooks on the desk. A piece of paper floated down in front of him, and Harry skimmed it quickly. It was a schedule, divided into three parts. Morning, afternoon, and evening.

“Outdoor?” Harry asked, surprised at how vague the schedule was.

“Outdoor,” Snape confirmed. “I believe it is more likely that you will face the Dark Lord outdoors, but in any event, we will not practise indoor duelling until back at the castle and I am not financially liable for any damage.”

“Oh,” Harry said, looking down at the schedule again and leaving it on the desk. A small laugh escaped as he imagined Dumbledore scolding Snape for breaking windows in the castle.

“The exception will be if it’s raining. I am not being paid nearly enough to train you in the rain and You-Know-Who is far too interested in drama and theatrics to fight in foul weather.”

Harry blinked, before grinning. “What a missed opportunity though. Dark and stormy night, and all that…it’s a great way to set the mood for the history books.”

Snape glared at him and finally shook his head. “One may only hope you live long enough to irritate the Dark Lord to death.”

Snape flicked the light in the hallway off, and grasped the handle of the office door to close it after him.

“Sleep well, Potter,” Snape said, with a wry smile that instantly had Harry on guard. “We begin physical training tomorrow.”

…

Snape’s back garden had a slope to it, with a stone retaining wall at the bottom of the hill, where the river twisted around the back of the property. It had a few healthy trees, and was mostly protected from anyone walking by in the bridge at the front of the house. Snape had also added a disillusionment spell to it, so many years ago that people in the village assumed that that part of the property just didn’t have a garden.

Harry stood at the bottom of the slope, in front of two trees, looking warily at Snape. He’d changed into some of Dudley’s worst rags and had only gotten more suspicious when Snape cast an unbreakable spell on his glasses. The ground where he was standing was still wet and mucky from the rainstorm the day before, but Harry still shifted impatiently as his shoes very slowly sunk into the mud.

“Are you familiar with dodge ball, Mr Potter?” Snape asked, standing up at the glass door of the house. He held a small orange ball in his hand, and a not very reassuring smile on his face.

“The Muggle game?” Harry asked, watching very intently as Snape tossed the ball up and down.

“The very same,” Snape confirmed. “Simple enough, Potter. Dodge the balls.”

“Hang on,” Harry said, stalling because he was quite certain that Snape’s throws weren’t going to be gentle. “You’re not seriously thinking Voldemort is going to throw stuff at me?”

Snape clicked his tongue in irritation, and Harry could hear it even from ten feet away.

“Most people forget that during a duel, the surroundings of the participants face heavy damage, by poorly aimed spells. It is one thing, Potter, to defend yourself against whatever curse or hex is coming your way. But you must also be aware of your surroundings, and able to dodge falling rocks from a blasted wall, or branches twisting in a conjured wind.”

Harry stared down at his hands, where the scabs from Ripper weren’t quite healed. He was fairly fast catching a snitch on a broom, but Harry’s co-ordination with anything else wasn’t the best.

“Can’t I just use magic?”

“No,” Snape bluntly answered. “You are thirteen years old. Perfect your individual spells, before even thinking to attempt multispell casting.”

“Right,” Harry muttered. He and Ron still had trouble mastering the spells they were being taught now, and that was one spell at a time, in a non-life or death situation.

“It is not rare for a duelling wizard to also intentionally cast spells against their surroundings. While the other participant is attempting to guess what is next coming, the first wizard has blown up the wall beside him.”

Harry didn’t need to ask to know that Snape was that type of a duellist.

“On three, Potter,” Snape said, raising his arm. Harry hoped that Snape would be somewhat impressed with his skills, as he'd had to dodge Dudley and his friends plenty of times when he was growing up. Not only them, but the rocks, balls, sticks, and anything else they threw.

Snape had a pretty good arm. Harry had no qualms about admitting that, as he barely twisted out of the way of another ball. Harry wasn't quite sure how Snape was conjuring them so quickly, but it didn't take long for the muddy bottom of the garden to be full of muck splattered orange balls. They were a slight tripping hazard as Harry kept running, but he suspected that was rather the point. As Snape had mentioned, blowing up walls was a valid duelling technique, and the rubble had to land somewhere.

After getting nailed in the thigh with a ball, Harry held his hand up for a break. Snape was standing up on the patio, another ball ready in his hand, with his wand grasped loosely in the other hand. His face was slightly flushed, but he looked amused, and almost happy.

“Is Voldemort one of those duellists?” Harry asked, massaging his thigh. It almost felt like it was going to cramp, and Harry knew he'd have a massive bruise there later.

“No,” Snape responded, tossing the ball up in the air. Harry wasn't fooled; he knew Snape could launch the ball at him at any second. “The Dark Lord enjoyed drama and power when he fought. He preferred to only focus on his target, and to taunt said target as well.”

“Then why is this so important?” Harry huffed.

“As the leader, he was accustomed to duelling without external distractions. Thusly, when he was distracted, his considerable power caused damage to whatever it hit,” Snape bluntly answered.

“And you think if I can distract him, I can defeat him?” Harry continued.

Snape gave him a considering look, before whipping the ball near Harry's feet. Harry jumped, not as high as he'd done when they'd first started this exercise, but he managed to avoid the rebound bounce from the back garden wall as well.

“I think any chance you get should be taken seriously,” Snape finally answered.

Harry nodded, before lifting each foot and flicking the mud off his shoes. Harry had done fairly well so far, and he was fairly certain that Snape wasn't taking things too easy on him.

“Regardless of it's effectiveness, I must admit that volleying dodge balls at you is just as fun as I imagined it would be,” Snape commented, a wicked smirk on his face as he rocketed another ball at Harry.

In a fit of annoyance, Harry growled and made a strong wish that the balls around his feet would all volley back at Snape, just as fast as they’d been hurled at him. He was only slightly surprised to see that they had, as his accidental magic occurred when he was most annoyed, but the feeling of justice was fleeting when he saw that the bastard gracefully avoided every single one.

...

Harry took a shower to wash the muck off himself after the game of dodge ball, getting the water as hot as he could to warm himself up. His feet were wrinkly, and he figured his socks were a loss, but he felt accomplished. Sure, he'd been hit with quite a few of the balls, but he'd dodged more than had hit him.

It didn't ease the ache in his legs as he went to the kitchen for lunch, but it was a similar ache to what Harry had after a long day of chores and Harry Hunting, so he knew it would go away after a day or so.

Snape was making stew, and the radio was playing as Snape chopped up the vegetables. It was a wizarding station, not one that Harry had ever heard at the Burrow, and it played a mixture of Muggle and wizard music.

“Did I pass?” Harry asked, slipping into the seat he'd been using since first coming to Snape's. His back was to the window, though Hedwig had gone out flying so he didn't worry about angering her by ignoring her.  He sneezed twice without warning, surprising himself.

“For a small runt of a child you are far more agile than I had expected.”

Harry furrowed his brow as he took in the comment. Snape's tone had been dry, without a trace of humour, but Harry suspected that it was actually a compliment.

“How do you know so much about Voldemort?” Harry quietly asked, opening his notebook and staring at it. He could feel Snape's eyes on him, but Harry wanted to know. He had no doubt that Snape was going to help train him, but he wanted to know why Snape. Why was Snape the best at Defence, and why did Snape know Voldemort's fighting habits so well. “And why do you call him the Dark Lord?”

The wooden spatula Snape had been stirring the stew with hit the side of the pot harder than it had seconds before, and Harry didn't dare to look up.

“One should always study one's enemy,” Snape answered, in a tone that signalled the end of questioning.

_One should always study one's enemy._  It was a lie – there was another reason that Snape knew Voldemort so well. It was just a feeling Harry had, just as it had been when he'd caught his first look at Snape and realised that Snape would never be sympathetic toward any Gryffindors. But Harry knew that there was some other explanation for it.

He also recognised the truth in Snape's statement though, and turned over the page to write more of what he could remember of the ghostly Voldemort in the Forbidden Forest.

….

Harry went to bed obscenely early that night, as Snape had put some of his medicinal concoction in Harry’s hot chocolate when Harry wasn’t looking. As he’d shovelled Harry into the bed, Snape had mumbled something about not having the patience for a well Potter, never mind an ill one. Harry thought it was a rubbish excuse, but his eyelids were closing on him and he forgot to care.

He did wake up (after twelve hours) feeling surprisingly rested and without the chill he’d had the day before. Snape did not say anything about Harry sleeping so long, but instead merely served lunch, and then held up the orange dodge ball. Harry had braced for another round of being a target, but Snape had instead set up an obstacle course in the back garden. Not overly complicated, but enough that Harry had to dodge fallen tree branches, climb over piles of bricks, and duck under charmed netting that was intent on capturing him.

It set the course for the rest of the week and weekend. Snape would come up with some sort of bizarre outdoor game, and only explain its relevance after Harry had been run though it a few times. The one time Harry did ask if Snape was just doing this as a form of torture, Snape had merely pointed to the folder of newspaper clippings again. On the second read through, the history of Voldemort’s reign of terror had been no less disturbing, but it was then that Harry noticed what was going on in the background of the photos. The utter devastation that Voldemort and his followers had caused on houses, villages, and train stations. There were piles of rubble about; wooden support beams jutting up and out on odd angles, and smouldering mounds of ash on the ground.

“It’s entirely possible that you and your irritating luck could make him trip on a tree root and smash his head against a rock,” Snape dryly said. He nodded at the papers again though, and continued. “Best be prepared either way.”

“Right,” Harry said, nodding. He flicked through the pages again, and noticed something that he hadn’t the first time. Snape had taken a lot of time to clip and collect the articles, but there had never been anyone mentioned with the name of Snape in them. Harry wondered why the man had done it, if his family hadn’t been directly affected.

“When did Voldemort become your enemy?” Harry asked, pretending to be engrossed in another article.

Snape, who was searching on his bookshelves in the sitting room, turned to look at Harry. It was a calculating look, and Harry felt like some sort of insect under a microscope.

“Ordinarily I would remove points and assign detention for asking such a personal question, Potter,” Snape levelly said, and Harry slowly looked up from the collection of articles in his hand.

“Sorry,” Harry said. Normally he only felt sorry for overstepping boundaries with his relatives because it meant that he’d be stuck in his room for the evening. But now his remorse wasn’t solely selfish. Snape may not have clipped articles about anyone Harry recognized, but he had lost someone in the last war. Harry could tell by the way that Snape’s spine had straightened at the question, by the white-knuckle clench on the book he was holding, and the shuttered expression on his face. The biggest clue was that he was so damn adamant that Harry learn to fight and defend himself, and Snape didn’t even like Harry.

“Perhaps I will tell you another time,” Snape conceded, taking another book of the shelf. “Suffice to say, I will owe you a very large bottle of whatever disgustingly sugary drink you favour if you do manage to kill him.”

Harry smiled at that, relieved that Snape wasn’t very angry with him.

“I’ll do my best, sir,” Harry commented.

“See that you do,” Snape said, taking his books with him as he headed down toward the kitchen. “And see if you can find your school list in that horribly disorganized trunk. I am going to Diagon Alley tomorrow.”

…

Harry smiled as he stumbled out of the fireplace in the Leaky Cauldron. For the five weeks he’d been at the Dursleys, all he could think of was returning here, getting his school books, his potion ingredients, looking at the latest quidditch gear; any and every little thing that reminded him that he was a wizard. Of course, spending the last week and a half with Snape had eased that tension, as he had been allowed to do magic at Snape’s house, and surprisingly, he hadn’t been treated like the waste of space his relatives thought him to be. Snape, when he didn’t have an audience of other students or staff, was actually a halfway all right teacher.

Even though his friends wouldn’t be in London that day, Harry had still balked at the idea of going shopping disguised as John. He’d argued that Sirius Black would have to be stupid to go to Diagon Alley in the middle of the day, but Snape had had that look on his face that meant he wasn’t about to change his mind.

“Stop tugging at your collar,” Snape hissed, pulling out his wand to tap the bricks on the gateway. Harry was wearing one of Snape’s old dress shirts, because Snape had vetoed all of Harry’s clothes as not being suitable for going out in public. What Harry hadn’t expected was that Snape had gone out in disguise as well.

His enquiry was met with a curt ‘Potter, I have taught at Hogwarts for the past ten years. I have no desire to be recognised by any past students, whether it be in fond recollection or, more likely, a form of retribution.’ That actually made quite a bit of sense to Harry, so he didn’t question further.

Surprisingly, their first stop was not the apothecary, even though it was quite close to the entrance of the Leaky Cauldron. Snape marched them straight toward Flourish and Blotts, where he demanded Harry’s school list.

“ _Unfogging the Future_?” Snape asked, steering them around the group of kids checking out a cage full of books. “Why on earth are you taking divination, John?”

“Sounded easy,” Harry honestly answered, with a shrug. It was only after he’d answered that he noticed Snape’s faint eye twitch.

“Care of Magical Creatures?” Snape asked, with almost a growl.

“I seem to keep running into strange creatures. Thought it’d be good to learn about them,” Harry smartly replied. That was apparently also not the right answer, as Snape now looked like he wanted to clobber Harry. It was interesting to see such a Snape-like expression on a softer, rounder face, with similar brown hair to Harry’s closely cropped disguised cut.

“Maybe it’ll teach me how to handle giant black dogs,” Harry added.

“Fetch your books and be at the front in ten minutes,” Snape snapped, shaking his head as he stalked off toward the Defensive Spells section.

When Harry returned to the front, books in hand and _Monster Book of Monsters_ growling under his grip, he saw that Snape was already in queue and glaring daggers at the man paying for his order.

“Who’s that, Uncle Sebastian?” Harry said. He bit the inside of his lip to not smile at the nasty look Snape gave him. Throughout their charade, Snape had never mentioned what his uncle name was, and Harry thought it was only fair that he choose, as Snape had decided on John for him.

Snape stared again at the man, his upper lip curled as he shifted his feet. Harry thought it was a bit rude, as the man at the counter, though scruffy looking and in rather worn robes, looked like a kind person. Definitely one that had seen better days, going by the scars on his face.

“Remus Lupin. Your new Defence professor,” Snape said, his voice almost a growl as the Lupin bloke laughed at something the cashier said, before exiting the shop.

"The new Defence teacher?” Harry asked, craning his neck to look around Snape at the door. “I could have said hi...”

"As John Snape? A student he will not now, nor ever, have in his classes? Yes, do go introduce yourself,” Snape said, dumping his books on the counter. The clerk opened his mouth, likely to ask if Snape wanted a bag, and snapped it shut again at the scowl on Snape’s face.

“He might not have asked my name,” Harry sulkily said, knowing exactly how stupid it sounded.

“Fear not, I'm certain you’ll have his complete attention in no time,” Snape muttered.

“Will that be all for today, sir?” the clerk asked, looking between them.

“No, those too,” Snape said, nodding toward Harry as he withdrew his coin bag.

“I can pay for these,” Harry stammered, clutching his books tightly.

“You will,” Snape agreed, tapping his finger on the counter. “The wall behind the mill wheel needs to be washed. Give him the books, John.”

Caught without knowing what to say, as Snape was feeding him and putting him up for the rest of the summer, and he’d not asked for a Knut from Harry, Harry dropped his books on the counter. _The Monster Book of Monsters_ snarled, and Harry instinctively reached out to pet it as a soothing technique.

“Thank you,” Harry quietly said, staring at the book that now seemed to be purring in his hand. The clerk was also watching, an indignant look on his face that matched the redness of the bite marks on his hands. 

“Don’t thank me yet,” Snape said, his tone slipping from anger to one more of malicious amusement. “We are going to a department store afterward, for an activity loathed by every thirteen year old boy.”

He nodded to the cashier, and led Harry out of the shop.

“Er, what’s that?” Harry asked, slightly nervous. He could count on both hands the number of times Aunt Petunia had ever taken him to the shops, and Harry wasn’t sure what to expect.

“Clothes shopping,” Snape said, in the same voice he gleefully announced detentions. “The Headmaster has been experimenting with Muggle banking technology and I have borrowed one of his new cards. We will be replacing that atrocious wardrobe of your cousin’s rags, as I’m certain you’ll be able to dodge spells much better once you’re no longer tripping over whale-sized trousers.”

Harry screwed his face up at the thought of trying on so many new clothes. As much as he wanted rid of Dudley’s rags, the searching and trying on sounded like having to do exercise in a boring class of Binns’.

“Can’t I just find one or two things I like, and buy a bunch of them in different colours?” Harry asked, following Snape toward the apothecary.

“Naturally,” Snape answered, not slowing his pace. “But you will still need several shirts, dress shirts, jumpers, trousers, new shoes that actually fit and a week’s worth of undergarments and socks.”

Harry wondered if public embarrassment was a new form of torture that Snape was testing out.

Snape glanced back at Harry and kept talking.

“Two weeks’ worth; you are going through puberty after all.”

That would be a yes, then.

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

Covent Garden was a much busier place than Diagon Alley had been, and Harry was glad that Snape had disguised them with Muggle clothing. Not that there weren’t plenty of odd people about in London – Harry just preferred not being one of them. In the department store Snape had led him directly to the clothing section, given him a list of the basics to buy, and left him to his own devices. Harry at first had been hesitant to choose things, but Snape had explained along the way, rather sarcastically, that the money they were using had been set aside for some secret group of Dumbledore’s to use, and Harry’s well-being was slightly important to said group.

When Snape found him again after half an hour, Harry had a good collection of shirts, some trousers that weren’t uniform dress ones, jeans, some knitted jumpers like Mrs Weasley had made him, new pyjamas, and the dreaded undergarments. The only things he’d missed were shoes and a coat, so Harry left his stuff with Snape and went off in search of something that he liked.

The freedom of being able to choose what he wanted (Snape had only rejected one pair of jeans because they were pre-stained – ‘a foolish selling point if there ever was one’) was rather brilliant, and Harry knew he’d have to control his urge to buy things in future shopping trips because he only had so much in his vault, and it had to last his whole time at Hogwarts.

“All right, I’m ready,” Harry announced, carrying two boxes of shoes, and a jacket slung over his arm.

Snape was sitting next to a bored looking teenage girl, the pile of Harry’s clothes in a basket by his feet. The packages of Harry’s underpants were on top of the shirts and trousers, and Harry flushed as he dropped the shoeboxes over them.

He glanced up at the girl beside Snape, who gave him a little smile before standing up. Harry, face already slightly embarrassed because of the underpants, suddenly realized that his stupid puberty-ridden body was very much enjoying the mere seconds of attention she was giving him.

“Take your things, John,” Snape said, shoving the basket into Harry’s hands. Harry held it close, right in front of his midsection, and gave the girl an answering smile as she wandered away.

“Go away,” Harry muttered to himself, watching the girl leave.

“Be careful,” Snape warned, his voice undertoned with mirth as he walked toward the cash. “That’s not the kind of accidental magic one wants to wish on oneself.”

Harry’s eyes widened as he followed Snape.

“It wouldn’t be permanent, would it?”

Snape didn’t answer, and Harry tried not to think too much about it. He was quickly distracted by the amount on the cash register, which kept getting higher and higher by the minute. Snape explained, once again, that the money was not for Harry to worry about, but the Dursleys had never given him anything freely, and Harry couldn’t help the ingrained training that this would cost him.

“Someone went through a growth spurt?” the woman asked, a grandmotherly smile plastered on her face as she looked down at Harry. Harry fought the urge to scowl as Snape handed over the bankcard. He wasn’t some two year old who’d grown into big boy pants, for pity’s sake.

“No, more a late reward for good end of term grades,” Snape replied, flashing an amused smile as the purchase went through. Harry blinked as he picked up the bags, wondering if Snape was referring to the Basilisk slaying, or the fact that he and Ron had gotten rid of flashy Professor Lockhart.

….

_Harry carefully made his bed before he hefted his trunk up onto it. It was more than half as tall as he was, but the shop keeper he’d bought it from had been nice and put some sort of charm on it to keep it light. His small fingers traced the black outline of the Hogwarts crest on it, before he fit his palm over the centre. The crest was bigger than his hand._

_“This is real,” Harry whispered to himself, watching as each clasp of the trunk clicked open under his nimble fingers. Behind him, Hedwig chirped softly in her sleep._

_“This is real, and you’re real, and I’m a wizard,” Harry told her. Downstairs he could hear the telly blaring, and his Uncle laughing at something. His room was silent, but Harry preferred it that way. The silence was his._

_In the trunk were all of the books on his list, stacked neatly according to size and strapped together with an old-fashioned leather strap. He had a small mint tin in the corner of the trunk, which held a few quill nibs for the practice quills he had, and Harry had placed all his feather quills in a Walker’s shortbread box that he’d salvaged from the recycle bin.  His potions equipment had been wrapped carefully in a shirt that was still acceptable to wear, and his robes folded neatly and placed on top of the pile._

_Every article of clothing had his name in it. Harry had spent two evenings cutting up even strips of an old pair of shorts, printing his name neatly on them, and sewing them into his clothes. His fingers still hurt from pushing the needle through the thick winter cloak, but he was determined that he would follow the requests of the supply letter perfectly._

_Harry smiled at his collection of school items. He was ready, and he’d never looked forward to going back to school as much as he did now.  Though the trunk was packed (for the fourth time – Harry had re-arranged things to fit them better and ensure nothing would be broken), he still felt that the trunk was missing something. His initials were on each end, and it had a small metal wheel trolley for it. Inside the lid was plain, save for the logo of the trunk maker set amongst the diamond patterned lining paper. It was a foreign name, German sounding, and to Harry made his journey to Hogwarts seem much more official._

_Harry looked about the room to see if he could figure out what was missing, and it took a few minutes to sink in. The trunk wasn’t really his. It could belong to any student. Slowly, he crept about the room (though he had every right to be in there) and looked for something to add. Drawers were silently opened, toys shifted about in the closet, and Harry peeked under the bed as he looked for a few things. Finally, he had the additions he was missing. A battered copy of_ Charlie and the Chocolate Factory _, a thick pair of warm socks, a Jacob’s ladder that Harry had fixed a week earlier, and a park map of the London Zoo. Harry planned to cut out the logo from the map, and sello-tape it to the inside of the trunk lid._

_Harry nodded to himself, satisfied with the plan, and locked the trunk up again. He carefully placed it at the end of his bed, putting it on his desk chair so that he could see it through the night._

_Slipping under the covers of his bed, Harry glanced at the calendar up on the wall. Three days to go, and he and the trunk would be on their way to Hogwarts._

_He was going to be a wizard._

“Potter.”

“Yeah!” Harry startled, limbs jerking and head shaking as he came to awareness. He was sitting on the foldaway bed, leaning against the bookcases, and had his clothing sorted in piles on the bed around him. His trunk was open on the floor, with last year’s clothes, books, and the Jacob’s ladder strewn about. Harry had two dress shirts hanging on Snape’s office chair and he watched dumbly as Snape picked up one of the shirts.

“Is there a space enlargement spell on your trunk?” Snape asked, holding the shirt by its collar and rubbing something on it with his nail.

“I hope so,” Harry said, looking around the room and shaking the image of Privet Drive from his mind.

“You may find this method much easier,” Snape replied, withdrawing a piece of paper from his pocket. It had nothing to do with the space in Harry’s trunk, and as he passed it over, Harry noted the name 'Cash’s' at the top.

“Five points for resourcefulness regardless,” Snape finished, flicking the shirt inside out, and his hand holding just below Harry’s handmade ‘H POTTER’ tag.

Harry’s lips set together as he felt a rush of defensiveness rising. He’d done pretty damn well for himself as a child and was about to say so, but Snape left the room without saying anything else about the handmade labels. When Harry glanced down at the paper he was holding, he saw it was an order form for school uniform labels. Likely the same company Aunt Petunia used for Dudley’s things, and Snape had even filled out this address for the delivery.  Harry was surprised that he’d not also filled out ‘JOHN SNAPE’ as the label name.

“Are you actually…People know you as Snape here? In this town?” Harry called out, failing to make his question into any sort of sense.

Snape must had been studying the house picture in the hall, as it only took him three seconds to glance back into the room and look at Harry as if he were stupid.

“The order form will be sent to a Muggle business, Potter. Even so, if you or one of your idiot schoolmates were to look for me in the telephone directory, there are plenty of Snapes that live in England.”

“Right,” Harry said, embarrassed that he’d asked.

“I have it on good authority that this is not the sort of place the students imagine me living,” Snape mused, sweeping his hand out in reference to the office.

Images of bats, vampires, spooky castles and coffins popped into Harry’s head.

“No, probably not,” Harry wisely answered. He put the order form down on the bed and gestured to it. “I don't have any galleons to pay...”

Snape waved his hand, as if he was flicking an irritating fly out of the air, already turning to leave the room.

“You will be meeting the Weasleys in Diagon Alley, the day before you return to Hogwarts. I'm certain a visit to Gringotts can be arranged.”

Harry broke into a grin, thinking about zipping through Diagon with Ron and hopefully Hermione too. And since he'd already bought his books, he could spend some time looking at fun stuff, like the newest quidditch supplies.

….

The room was pitch dark, with the blinds drawn over the small window that was mostly blocked by the mill wheel. Harry had been sleeping in the room for two weeks now, and knew which floor planks in the office squeaked, what each groan of the house was, and what shadows came on the walls during the night.

He did not recognize a noise just outside his door, and only partially woke up to listen. There was silence for a few seconds, and when Harry glanced toward the office door he didn't see anything. Putting his head back down, Harry stretched his one hand up under his pillow, holding tightly to his wand. Feeling much more secure, Harry drifted off to sleep again.

He only managed to drift for another ten seconds, before he thought he heard another creak and sat bolt up in bed, his wand pointed at the door. Instead of it being empty again, Harry saw that Snape was standing in the doorframe, leaning against it.

“Very good, Potter,” Snape said, sounding both satisfied and smug.

Harry, who'd felt a twinge of panic since the first noise that had woken him, exhaled a large breath.

“What was that for?” Harry demanded. According to the clock on Snape's desk, it was almost one in the morning.

“Training you would be absolutely useless if someone could attack you in your sleep,” Snape said, still watching from the door.

“Great,” Harry said, flopping back down onto the bed. “So for the next however many years, I can't sleep?”

“Get up,” Snape ordered, flicking on the light.

Harry hissed and drew his hand over his face.

“Are you serious?”

“Get. Up,” Snape barked, stepping into the room.

Harry threw the covers down and pulled himself out of bed, still gripping his wand.

“We will be discussing personal safety wards for sleeping when back at Hogwarts,” Snape said, as Harry blinked his eyes in exaggeration, to wake himself up. “As for now, we are going outside.”

“It's one in the morning,” Harry dumbly said, staring at Snape.

“Warm socks, then,” Snape snapped, walking out of the room and down toward the kitchen.

The night wasn't super cold, but it was windy, and Harry did not want to be facing one of Snape's obstacle courses or the damn dodge balls in the middle of the night. Not when he'd already bounced off the doorframe of the office on his way out. His co-ordination wasn't even close to acceptable and he knew he wouldn't be able to dodge anything.

Surprisingly, that wasn't on Snape's list of activities. Snape led him to the side of the back garden, and Harry could see where the mill wheel was that Snape had set up target practise.  On each slat of the wheel was a target, and the water current was strong enough for the targets to keep rotating.

“You want me to hit targets in the middle of the night?” Harry confirmed.

Snape stood beside him, arms crossed and a satisfied look on his face.

“If you are attacked in the middle of your beauty sleep, I expect you to pick off your assailants, yes.”

Harry shrugged, lifting up his wand. Snape had taught him a marking spell, which allowed him to fire a small burst of colour from his wand, marking the target paper. It was only after Harry tried the first shot when he realised that the targets were not the same size, and that Snape had set some sort of charm on them that they moved side to side as the mill wheel brought them around.

“You must hit at least twelve, Potter, or you’ll be out here all night,” Snape warned.

Harry seriously considered firing at Snape instead.

…

On the night before Harry was going to Diagon Alley, Snape made steak for dinner. It was a nice night out, and Harry's mouth watered at the smell.

“Celebrating the end of summer?” Harry asked, getting a glass from the cupboard.

Snape paused in consideration, before putting a baked potato on his plate.

“To your continued survival, if you'd like,” Snape replied, going to sit at the table.

Harry smirked, filling his glass with water and serving himself dinner.

“You didn't think I'd survive living here, did you?” Harry asked, feeling proud that he'd managed to prove Snape wrong. He _wasn't_ a spoiled rich brat who expected the world to bow at his feet.

“I had my doubts,” Snape acknowledged, in a very dry tone.

“Hah,” Harry said, plunking down in his seat. “I actually learned a few things too.”

“Will wonders never cease,” Snape continued. Harry ignored the sarcasm.

“And we'll be continuing? Two days a week, during school?”

“Yes,” Snape responded, expertly cutting his steak. “Which your friends will not be informed of.”

“What?” Harry asked, his fork jammed into the potato.  “I have to tell my friends.”

“You won't,” Snape responded, pointing his knife at Harry. “This is part of your training. Trust no one, Potter.”

“I need to trust my friends,” Harry slowly said. “There's no way I can do all of this alone.”

Snape shook his head, rolling his eyes slightly as he did so. He took a sip of beer from his glass (Beer! Harry was still surprised to see him drink it), before answering again.

“I am well aware of that. I am testing you on your ability to keep important information hidden, as you can not, no matter how much you want to, ever be fully transparent to your friends.”

“So I can tell them at some point,” Harry asked.

“Yes. For now, there is such a false sense of quiet security in the wizard world that your friends will not be convinced of the danger, nor your need to be trained.”

Harry started on his steak, remembering that both Ron and Hermione had followed him when he’d tried to protect the Philosopher’s Stone.

“I don’t know about that. They were there, when Quirrell tried to get the stone.”

“Following out of blind loyalty, no doubt,” Snape said. “In any event, I have no desire to deal with the complaints and little detective adventures of Weasley and Granger every time I poison you.”

Harry smiled as he took a sip of water, remembering how ridiculous some of their ideas had been to find out if Snape was evil, or if Malfoy was the heir of Slytherin.

“Hang on, you’re going to poison me?” Harry asked, blinking at Snape.

“Yes,” Snape answered, calmly eating some of his salad.

Harry's jaw dropped slightly.

“Not now,” Snape huffed, pointing his knife at Harry's plate. “That is perfectly good steak that you will not waste.”

Harry picked up his fork again, but didn't take a bite.

“But, poison?” Harry meekly asked.

“Veritaserum, at the very least,” Snape explained, to the complete non-reassurance of Harry.

“Ver.. - a truth serum?” Harry slowly said, working out the Latin.

“Precisely. Oh don't give me that look, Potter. I assure you, I have no desire to know all the deep dark secrets within your little head. But you should experience veritaserum, and feel the draw of it, in order to learn how to defeat it. If any of the Death Eaters capture you, I wouldn't put it past them to use it for a little entertainment.”

Harry's upper lip turned and he stopped eating for a minute. Something ugly twisted in his stomach.

“For entertainment,” Harry repeated.

Snape took another drink, giving Harry a considering look.

“Perhaps not thoughts for a thirteen year old,” Snape conceded, no hint of derision in his voice.

“Professor,” Harry said, staring straight at Snape and trying to steady his voice. “You've...you know Voldemort well. I need to know why he wants to kill me. I need to know why… why his followers will have some sort of... of... sick entertainment planned...”

Harry's speech had speed up by the time he got to the end of the sentence, and Snape pushed Harry's glass of water toward him.

“Drink, and then breathe,” Snape ordered.

Harry tried, but he still couldn't help the rising panic in his chest when he realised the severity of what he was facing.

“Harry.”

Harry looked up, and was surprised to see a soft look on Snape's face. Not sympathy – Harry couldn't ever imagine Snape looking at him the way that Mrs Weasley did. But his tone sounded oddly protective, and Harry found it reassuring.

“The Dark Lord has targeted _you_ , because he believes you are the only one who can defeat him.”

Harry's eyes widened, and he slumped in his seat.

“Only me?”

“That's what he believes,” Snape answered, scorn seeping into his voice again. “But you will not fight him alone.”

Harry nodded, looking at the edge of his plate.

“So that's why you're throwing dodge balls at me. And making me run an obstacle course in the middle of the night. For entertainment training.”

Harry allowed a bit of dark humour to show, as he was feeling overwhelmed and that was usually his default way of handling it.

“And poisoning, torturing... that sort of thing,” Snape immediately agreed. He picked up his knife and fork again to continue eating his steak.

“Torture? Are you going to use torture spells on me too?"

Snape didn't miss a beat eating his dinner.

“The Ministry frowns upon that sort of thing.”

Harry snorted into his glass of water.

“Yeah, but you burn post from them. I don't think you care much about what the Ministry has to say.”

“You would do well to remember that,” Snape said, rising to get more food from the stovetop.  
….

Harry woke up early in the morning, partially out of excitement for seeing his friends again, and also because the very next day they'd be headed back to Hogwarts. His summer hadn't turned out too poorly, once he'd left the Dursleys, but that was a very odd thought considering whose house he'd ended up at.

Instead of thinking it over too much, Harry stood up and stretched, scrunching his eyes tight against the bit of morning light that came through the edges of the window curtains. He could hear Snape moving about in the washroom next door, so he didn't bother rushing. Instead, Harry made the bed, put his trunk up on top, and packed his two notebooks inside. The clothes he was going to wear today were already on the chair beside him, and Harry didn't think he needed anything else from his trunk. Just to remember to pack his toothbrush from the washroom.

Harry changed quickly into his regular clothes, and as he did so, made a mental list of what he wanted to look at in Diagon Alley today. He'd seen, when he was there with Snape, that there was a new broom on display at Quality Quidditch Supplies, and while Harry was perfectly happy with his Nimbus, he still wanted to have a look. And maybe look at getting some new gloves from there, and perhaps a team shirt. Ron was a die-hard fan of the Cannons, but Harry wanted to check out some of the other teams before he bought one.

“Dressed?” Snape asked, knocking on the door.

“Yeah,” Harry answered, rolling his pyjamas up and shoving them at the top of the trunk, covering the Jacob's ladder.

“We will be apparating in half an hour. Breakfast is in London,” Snape said, picking up something of his own from the desk.

“All right,” Harry said, looking around to see if he missed anything else. He closed and locked the trunk, setting it down to the floor, and turned to retrieve his toothbrush from the washroom.

Snape's waving wand caught his eye, and Harry glanced back over his shoulder to see that his bed, the folding one, had disappeared. Snape left as well, muttering to himself as he went into the kitchen, but Harry stayed where he was, looking at the empty spot where his bed had been only seconds before. For the rest of the half hour before Snape called him to the apparition spot, Harry couldn't figure out why it bothered him.

….

Snape's breakfast cafe choice was a small little place about ten minutes from The Leaky Cauldron. It didn't appear to be magical at first, but Snape was reading the _Daily Prophet_ as he ate his breakfast, and no one else around them seemed to notice the oddly moving photo on the front page.

“What are you reading?” Harry asked, swishing his fork on the plate to get as much egg on it as possible.

“Ingredient listings,” Snape answered, his eyes still skimming the pages.

“Don’t you know the prices by heart already?” Harry smartly asked, smirking to himself.

The paper slammed down onto the table and Harry nearly splattered egg yolk over himself as he dropped his fork.

“I am not looking for prices, John, I am looking for oddities,” Snape said, his finger pointing on one entry in the paper’s Market Place section.

Harry reflected that outside of school, when he didn’t have a large audience, Snape’s brilliant side showed far more than his nasty, vindictive side.

_Lethifold leather, 27 galleons, 5 inch square piece._

“That’s…expensive,” Harry said, working out the math in his head. He still converted things to Muggle pounds to get an idea of worth, because he hadn’t used wizard money often enough to be familiar with the value.

“It’s leftover,” Snape said, and Harry wasn’t sure if he was talking to Harry, or just to himself. “There hasn’t been a lethifold advertised for months, as they’re difficult to capture. And now a five inch square piece…meaning the rest has been used in a potion.”

Harry vaguely recalled seeing something about lethifolds in his _Fantastic Beasts_ book, but he didn’t remember anything about its use in potions. 

“Wait,” Harry said, shaking his head. “I'm not disguised as John right now.”

Snape gave him an odd look, as his eyes glanced from Harry’s forehead scar down to his glasses, plain clothes, and trunk sitting beside him.

“Indeed, you are not. And now that you have returned to being Potter, you should know what to expect upon your return to school,” Snape said, recovering quickly.

“You mean that you’re going to be an utter git again at Hogwarts?” Harry asked, regretting his words immediately after they’d slipped out.

“There are many reasons, Potter, behind who I am. There are also, though things are currently calm, many who are carefully watching both you and I at the school,” Snape said, his voice low and steady. His eyes showed a bit of anger, but he didn’t reprimand Harry for the insult. “It is for that reason that no one shall have the slightest doubt to the fact that I detest you, Potter. Do you understand?”

“Yes sir,” Harry said, blinking. Snape’s face was so serious as he looked at Harry, serious and imposing and strict.

“You played a big part in the last war, didn’t you?” Harry quietly said, the question coming out more of a statement than an enquiry.

Snape sat back in his chair and was silent for a moment, as if he was figuring out exactly how much to tell Harry.

“I believe we are only beginning to scratch the surface of this oncoming war, Potter, and if anyone finds out that I have been training you, the price to be paid will be a lot higher than a mere reprimand.”

 Once again, Harry felt the wind knocked out of him from Snape’s words. War. It had happened before, when Harry was a mere baby, and Snape was training him for _when_ it happened again, not if.

“Thank you,” Harry said, pushing away his plate. It was mostly finished, but Harry couldn’t take another bite. “Thank you for training me, and for letting me stay this summer.”

Snape glanced at him over the paper, where he’d been skimming the For Sale ads again.

“And for not treating me like a child.”

“With the exception of the first morning in my home, you have proven rather un-childlike,” Snape mused, smirking at Harry’s blush.

“I’m not usually fond of dogs,” Harry muttered, glancing down at his hands where the bites from Ripper had finally healed. “What I meant though, I think Professor Dumbledore expects me to go off and fight this battle, without really telling me why. And you don’t. So, thank you.”

“You are aware that there is far more to this than you will ever know?” Snape asked, and his meaning was clear. There were things that Snape knew, had been affected by, which he planned to never tell Harry.

“Yeah,” Harry said. “As long as I survive, I guess.”

Snape rolled his eyes, before folding up the newspaper and rising from the table. He left some Muggle bills to cover the cost of breakfast, and waited for Harry to gather his things.

“Quit being so maudlin. You’re not the one who had his reputation destroyed by a mere toddler.”

Harry laughed as he followed Snape out of the café, and enjoyed the summer sunshine on the walk to Diagon Alley. He spotted the Grangers outside The Leaky Cauldron, and his smile grew wider.

“Stay out of trouble, Potter,” Snape said, standing beside him. Harry wasn’t that surprised to see that his features had transformed into those of ‘Uncle Sebastian.’ Harry suspected that as a teacher on summer hols, he wouldn’t want to run into Hermione the star student either.

“That’s always the plan, sir,” Harry cheekily said, before darting off down the road to meet his friend.   

…

The weather was still miserable in Hogsmeade, and the carriages that took the students to the school barely stood out against the dark trees and muck surrounding Hogsmeade Station. The ride was thankfully short, and Harry felt sorry for the first years, who’d be crossing the lake in rainy boats.

He was still feeling like rubbish from his encounter with the Dementor, but his spirits lifted as he, Ron, and Hermione walked into the warm school.

“Home,” Harry quietly said, speaking to himself as he looked up the giant walls of the grand staircase.

“Potter! Granger!”

Harry’s face fell as he spotted his Head of House, and he reluctantly said good-bye to Ron as Hermione tugged him over to the west staircase.

“I don’t need to go to McGonagall’s,” Harry grumbled, following Hermione up the steps to where McGonagall was standing.

His muttering continued as he walked, and Harry let out a surprised ‘oof’ when he ran into a solid black wall. Or, as Harry realised, the black wall ran into him.

A sarcastic response immediately flew to his lips, but was halted when he looked up and saw Snape’s expression. Snape’s eyes were flicking rapidly over Harry’s face, as if he was assessing Harry’s well-being just on visual cues.

“Only just back to school and already desperately seeking attention, I see,” Snape sneered.

“Severus,” McGonagall tutted, from the landing above. “You know the Dementors…”

“Yes, yes,” Snape irritably interrupted, flicking a second’s glance at McGonagall. “And apparently Potter does too, as he has chocolate all over his face.”

Snape gave the tiniest of nods and stalking off. Harry blinked, wondering about the utterly bizarre behaviour, before Hermione tugged his sleeve.

“You know, he is a Professor, but I have to say, I’m really not fond of him,” she confessed.

Harry bit his lip in effort not to laugh too loudly, and was only slightly surprised to taste leftover chocolate on it.

….

“Mr Potter, we do not hex other students. One detention and five points from Gryffindor.”

Ron sputtered beside Harry.

“Malfoy was taking the piss –” Ron started, silenced only by the glare Snape levelled at him from across the front entrance. At the doorway to the Great Hall, Malfoy was giving them a very smug look.

“Forget it, Ron,” Harry muttered, glaring up at Snape. “What’s a detention after Trelawney just predicted my death?”

Harry pretended not to notice the curious look on Snape’s face as they entered the hall. Malfoy and his friends followed after, and Harry easily ignored the Dementor noises they were making.

“It’s not right, Harry,” Ron shook his head. “He’s a git to give you detention on the first bloody day.”

Harry straddled the bench as a new wave of lunch dishes appeared.

“At least we have Hagrid’s class next, and not potions,” Harry reasoned, reaching for some meatloaf.

…

As Harry made his way down to the dungeons, he realised that he didn’t actually know if Snape intended to give him a real detention or not. It didn’t remove the smirk from his face though, and he hoped that this was just a cover for the twice-weekly lessons.

“Wipe that look off your face,” Snape snapped, holding open the office door. “It wasn’t that funny.”

“No, it really was,” Harry said, remembering the bawling Malfoy had faked after Buckbeak scratched him. He slipped past Snape and walked to the one hardback guest chair that Snape had in the office.

“Potter,” Snape warned.

“I was bitten by a basilisk and I didn’t even cry. Malfoy was howling over a tiny scratch,” Harry argued back.

Snape pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers, as if Harry had said something terrible.

“Yes, indeed.”

A muttered spell locked the office door, and another was cast on the fireplace.

“How will you be explaining your absence from your friends?”

There was a tea set on Snape’s desk that Harry hadn’t noticed before, and Snape took his time pouring tea as he waited for Harry’s answer.

“I took up running,” Harry proudly said. He’d had the flash of genius in this morning’s shower, and had chanted the word ‘running’ in his head until he could get back to his desk and write it down. “I took up running in the summer, but I’m not very good at it, so I still prefer to run alone.”

Snape handed Harry his tea mug, looking slightly impressed. It was enough to make Harry feel accomplished.

“Very good,” Snape conceded. “Your first lesson was going to be on shield charms and wards, but in light of yesterday’s events, I have decided to teach you how to conjure a patronus.”

Harry flushed with irritation.

“I’m fine. I only blacked out for less than a minute, and I had plenty of chocolate afterward.”

“Which is plenty of time to cast the Killing Curse,” Snape countered. He was sitting back in his ornate desk chair, looking like a bloody king.

Harry’s jaw dropped slightly, and he could not think of a suitable response.

Snape held up his hand, stopping Harry from speaking, even if he had something to say.

“It is sometimes difficult to remember that you are merely thirteen.”

Harry nodded, before finding his voice again. “So the patronus…”

“It won’t protect you from the Killing Curse,” Snape bluntly said, sipping his tea. “But it will stop the Dementors.”

Harry shuddered, grabbing a biscuit from the plate on the tray.

“Are they really going to be here for the entire year?”

“Until Black is captured, yes,” Snape answered, though Harry could tell he wasn’t pleased by the fact.

Snape refilled his own teacup, before starting to talk about patroni. Harry had brought down one of his summer notebooks, and scrambled to open it fast enough to take notes as Snape highlighted the background behind the spell, its original use, and the current adaptations. He detailed what the patronus is said to represent, and fired off a list of things that the patronus would defend Harry against. Finally, after a good twenty minutes, he told Harry the incantation.

“You must have a happy memory in mind,” Snape said. “It is absolutely essential, and without one, the effectiveness of the patronus will be severely degraded.”

Harry grimaced, thinking of his childhood memories.

“What if I don’t have one?” Harry quietly asked. “One that is happy enough.”

Snape studied him, and Harry knew he was doing it so he didn’t look up from the notebook. Snape had often given him the impression that he could read people’s minds, and Harry didn’t want to share his memories of growing up at Privet Drive, where his cousin tripped him on the stairs and locked him in the back garden, and his Aunt and Uncle kept him shut away in a cupboard.

“I am quite certain you and your two friends have had more than one overly saccharine moments within the walls of the castle,” Snape said, trying to sound derisive, but not quite achieving it.

Harry shrugged, as if struggling to find a happy memory wasn’t that big of a deal.

“Your first Christmas, perhaps.”

A smile formed on Harry’s face, as he remembered sitting in the Great Hall with Ron and his brothers, enjoying Christmas dinner.

“Okay,” Harry said. “I’ve got it.”

“Very well, stand up and wand at the ready,” Snape said, moving to stand behind Harry and monitor his wand movements. “Let the memory consume your thoughts, and then focus the magic out through your wand.”

Harry nodded, raising his hand and taking a breath.

“Expecto patronum!”

His wand warmed slightly and the barest hint of light, much weaker than a lumos, appeared at the tip.

Harry shrugged his shoulders and held his wand out again, focusing on his happy memory. He could feel Snape staring at him from behind the chair, but after two full years at Hogwarts, Harry was accustomed to people staring at him as if he were some sort of sideshow.

“Expecto patronum!” Harry cast again, his voice louder and his eyes barely open. He was thinking very hard, remembering well enough that he could almost smell the evergreen boughs that had decorated the Great Hall, but still nothing more than a silver light came from his wand.

“So, not an easy spell then,” Harry said, uneasy with the silence in the room.

“I’m surprised the great Harry Potter hasn’t thrown a fit at not being able to cast perfectly on the first try,” Snape commented, and there was a teasing tone to his voice but Harry felt his temper rise all the same. He turned to look up at Snape and had a scowl on his face.

"You know that's a load of boll-"

"Watch your language," Snape warned, pointing his finger at Harry.

"Rubbish," Harry angrily continued. "I’ve never been some super powerful wizard."

"And yet you defeated a basilisk with merely a hat and a songbird," Snape said, circling Harry and raising Harry's arm to the proper casting height again.

"I had help," Harry countered, sounding almost as if he was sulking. "There was a giant sword in the hat."

"Potter," Snape growled, the frustration on his face accentuating his frown lines. "Most grown men would have wet themselves facing such a beast. Your reputation is built on your luck, courage, and sheer stubbornness. Put that bloody mindedness to work and cast the spell!"

It almost sounded like a compliment, and as Harry yelled the incantation once more, he was amazed to see what appeared to be antlers forming out of the ball of silver light hovering above his wand. Unfortunately in the excitement, his concentration wavered and the ball disappeared.

Snape remained standing still behind him, but had a pleased smile on his face.

"It would seem that yelling is sufficient motivation," Snape commented. “What memory did you use?”

"I didn’t,” Harry said, slightly embarrassed. “I just wanted to prove you wrong.”

Snape visibly rolled his eyes.

“Sufficient for now, however, I doubt it will work when you face a real Dementor.”

“Yeah…what do you mean when? Isn’t this just a precaution?” Harry asked, putting his wand in his pocket. It was getting late and Harry figured Snape wouldn’t keep him until past curfew. Not this early in the school year.

“You will be tested,” Snape said, waving his hand as he moved to his back office wall shelf, and began searching through the potion phials there.

“…why?” Harry asked.

“So that I know you can properly defend yourself against a Dementor. Potter, I have very little patience for stupid questions.”

Snape pulled a bottle out of the back of the shelf, one that looked suspiciously like some of the liquor he’d seen in his Aunt Petunia’s living room cabinet.

“But you won’t test me until after I’ve done the spell properly, right?”

“Naturally. I have very little use for you fainting all over my dungeons. Now, take this to your Head of House, and be ready to try the spell again on Sunday morning, at nine.”

Harry took the bottle, unable to read whatever language the label was written in.

“It was only for a second,” Harry grumbled.

Snape walked around the desk and to a small door behind it, which was labelled ‘brooms’. He opened it, and Harry saw that behind the door was not actually a broom cupboard, but the entrance to a small flat.

“Dismissed, Potter. Good evening,” Snape said, stepping into the doorway.

Harry felt an odd pull to follow, imagining he’d find Snape’s kitchen and office and sitting room, just the same as in Lower Tarrow.

“Night, sir,” Harry said instead, slipping out the main office door and into the cold dungeons.

….

Harry dropped his book bag at the end of his bed and slumped down onto the comfortable covers, letting his feet dangle over the bed. An hour of practise, and he’d still only managed the small ball of silver hovering at the end of his wand.

“Scrubbing cauldrons, Harry?” Seamus asked, tapping his pencil like a drumstick against his own notebook.

“No,” Harry replied, eyes closed. “Cataloguing potion ingredients.”

“Boring,” Ron huffed, from the bed next to Harry. “That’s almost as bad as studying potions.”

“It is studying, Ron,” Harry complained, sitting up and kicking off his shoes. He shimmied back far enough that he could lean against the headboard, and took out one of his small summer notebooks.

“And stuff that we’ve never used before. If he keeps this up by exam time, I won’t know which is stuff I need to know for this year and what isn’t important,” Harry said, pretending to sound annoyed.

In his notebook he circled the two ingredients he’d written down during the summer. Graphorn and Runespoor, the two ingredients that Harry knew they’d yet to use in class. Picking up a pencil that was on his bedside cabinet, Harry added ‘lethifold leather’. He made a mental note in the morning to stop by the library and see if they had a general encyclopaedia of potion ingredients, or something he could cross-reference.

“Hermione will tell you it’s all important,” Ron said, tossing a ball up toward the canopy of his bed. It was an orange Chudley Cannons ball, and Harry instinctively ducked out of the way as it bounced wrong and came toward his head.

“Not bad,” Ron said, not bothering to get up and retrieve the ball. “You expecting the cavalry after you?”

“Prat,” Harry smiled.

 

…

Harry wasn’t quite in a foul mood, but he wasn’t ecstatic either. He’d had another lesson with Snape the night before, and though his patronus had taken form for a second, it hadn’t lasted long enough to discern what exactly the form was, nor be of any use to defend Harry. As the Defence class made their way through the castle, Harry’s thoughts were distracted by any happy memories he could bring to mind. Perhaps the one he had selected wasn’t happy enough, and that was causing his patronus to not form properly.

Harry was only slightly worried that he wouldn’t be able to find one strong enough. The memory he was currently using was of Christmas morning, unwrapping his gifts with Ron. His first knit sweater from Mrs Weasley didn't fit anymore, but Harry still kept it folded neatly in his trunk.

In the staffroom, Harry kept his eyes diverted from Snape, ignoring Ron’s seething at Snape’s cheap jab against Neville and Hermione. Now that he knew it was partially an act, it took some of the sting away.

“Neville! First up to the cupboard, that's right.”

Harry stood near Ron, lost in his thoughts as he watched Professor Lupin teach Neville how to defend himself against a boggart. He didn't mind Lupin, didn't have the instant distaste like he'd had with the previous two Defence teachers, but there was something about him that struck Harry as slightly different. Harry didn't want to necessarily focus on Lupin's clothes, and the fact that they were shabbier than any of the other staff at school. Harry had grown up with shabby, ill-fitting clothing, and refused to judge others for it. But though Lupin seemed to be a nice man, he did seem to watch over Harry more than the other students (and if it was because of the Dementor on the train incident, Harry was going to quickly prove that he wasn't a wimp), and while he didn't exactly antagonise Snape, it was obvious that they didn't like each other.

Harry smiled when Neville's boggart stepped out of the cupboard, the familiar black swirling cloth around the Snape impersonator. Harry held his hand up to his mouth to cover his snort, remembering Snape over the summer, sick with a cold and wrapped in a bathrobe as if he were the bloody king.

“Imagine it, Neville!” Lupin commanded.

“Riddikulus!” Neville shouted, stammering slightly over the first syllable.

The boggart Snape transformed, changing into a dashing moss green dress with a fancy hat to match.

The snort Harry was trying to keep in escaped, and he heard Hermione's giggle start just seconds before Ron's laugh. A waltz started playing as cross-dressing boggart Snape stared about the room in confusion, and Harry decided to laugh as much as he could now. He knew somehow that Snape would hear about this, and they’d all pay for it later.

It wasn't long before the boggart started transforming though, as different students went to the front and became the focus of it's ire. Harry was too amused looking at the different reincarnations to wonder what his version of the boggart would be (likely a giant basilisk, he fleetingly thought), but the smile fell from his face as an instant chill took over his body. The boggart turned into a mass of black robes, and Harry at first thought it was Voldemort. He started to feel slightly faint, and then realised that what he feared most was a Dementor.

A high pitched woman's scream, very quiet at first around the edges of his mind, started growing louder as the Dementor came closer to Harry.

“Riddikulus!” Lupin called, dashing in front of Harry. Harry barely caught a glance of Lupin's boggart, something round and bright, before shaking his head to clear the chill from his mind. He could still hear the waltz playing, and looked at his two friends to see if they'd been as affected.

Ron had a confused look on his face, and Hermione seemed very concerned. Once again, Harry realised he was the abnormal one.

The bell clanged for the end of class, which distracted the other students from pestering Harry.

“You guys go ahead,” Harry quietly said, as the rest of the class filed out of the staffroom around them. “I want to talk to Professor Lupin.”

Ron nodded.

“See you in the common room, mate,” Ron said, trailing after Hermione.

Once the students had left, Harry pretended to look around the staffroom a bit more as he worked out how to word his question. Professor Lupin though, seemed to know exactly why Harry had stayed behind.

“You want to know why they make you so weak,” Lupin said, studying Harry.

“I’m not weak,” Harry denied. “But, yes. No one else hears the screams, and no one else almost blacks out.”

“Who do you hear screaming, Harry?”

“I don’t know. Just a woman,” Harry said. He felt a pang of sickness seconds after the words had registered in his own mind, and he wondered if it was his mother.

“Hmm,” Lupin softly said, his face crumpling a little further into itself. He seemed to gather his thoughts before adding, “your boggart turning into a Dementor suggests that what you fear is fear itself, Harry, as that is what the Dementors cause. They prey on your worst fears, and suck the happiness out of you, all your good memories, leaving you with nothing but the worst experiences in your life.”

Lupin started to pack away the music player and Harry watched him, feeling chilled again.

“So the screaming is a memory,” Harry blandly said, staring unfocused at the floor.

“I’m afraid so,” Lupin answered, holding the record player in front of him. They walked to the door, and joined the bustle of students headed back to their dormitories. “The Dementors will only come around if you’re out of school bounds. You’re safe within the castle, Harry, and I assure you, we are all quite looking forward to Black getting caught, and for the Dementors to leave.”

Harry didn’t feel like that was an agreeable solution, but at least Snape was teaching him how to cast a patronus, so he could deter them.

“So for now?” Harry asked, walking with Lupin back toward the west corridors of the castle.

“Stay away from boggart infested cupboards,” Lupin said, in an oddly friendly smile that stretched all of the scars on his face to an almost invisible white.

 …

Four days after Lupin’s boggart lesson, Harry showed up in the dungeons. It was eight am on a Saturday morning, and he was dressed in track bottoms, a sport sweater, and running shoes as he knocked on Snape’s office door.  Under his sweater, tucked into the waistband of the bottoms, was his summer journal.

“In,” Snape commanded, in a nasty tone that to anyone that overheard sounded like he was irritated with Harry. Once the office door had closed, Snape’s scowl lightened somewhat. Not much, but enough that Harry spoke.

“I have another memory of Voldemort,” Harry said, pulling out the notebook. “Of him killing my mother.”

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I can't for the life of me remember how Mum ordered the name labels for our clothes, and of course now everything is by the internet. So we'll just allow for some creative licence here, and pretend the paper order forms are correct.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your continued reading! While a lot of things are consistent with canon, and will still be through the story, I will be deviating a bit more from here on out.

Harry did not expect the angry twisted scowl on Snape's face.

“Get in here,” Snape growled, pulling Harry into the office.

Harry blinked in confusion, shrinking back a little in case Snape's hands lost their steadiness and tried to smack him.

“But you wanted...” Harry started, the weight of the notebook in his pocket far weighing him down.

“You cannot possibly remember,” Snape barked, letting Harry go and pacing in front of his desk. “You were fifteen months old – far too young to properly remember such an event.”

Snape sounded almost as if he'd looked such possibilities up, and Harry kept well back from the man, utterly confused.

“I don't remember much,” Harry admitted, watching Snape carefully.

The dark eyes snapped to him and Harry flinched. He was slightly taken back at how fast Snape could go from enraged to calculating.

“How much, exactly, Mr Potter?”

“A few seconds,” Harry answered. He shifted his feet on uneven floor in the office, feeling just as off kilter mentally as he tried to figure out why this particular memory would make Snape so cross.

Snape was peering at him, and Harry looked down at his shoes. He'd written everything out in his notebook, something that had taken quite a bit of nerve, as he was particularly averse to reliving the memory, and he hoped Snape would be satisfied with it.

“A flash of green, someone laughing, and my mother screaming,” Harry mono-toned, his eyes flicking over Snape and noting the little differences in Snape’s posture. This was Professor Snape, the cold and intelligent potions master who was a no-nonsense taskmaster and Head of House.  This was not the Snape of the summer, a man who was equally brilliant, but somehow younger and not as mean with his sarcasm.

“That's the only memory I have of her,” Harry finished, crossing his arms.

There was no missing the flash of hurt that went through Snape's eyes, though it was there for only a brief moment. It unsettled Harry further, and he wondered why a simple task of telling Snape about this very short memory of Voldemort and his mother had turned out so wrong.

Snape's fingers flexed around the long swaths of black that were his teaching robes, and Harry wondered how the man wasn't constantly dripping his sleeves in cauldrons. Snape seemed to have good command though, flicking his arms up and wrapping the cloth around himself, as if to gather his thoughts and emotions.

“If you wish to know more about your mother, speak to your Head of House. She was, after all, a Gryffindor.”

Harry nodded, making a mental note to do just that. Everyone seemed well pleased to talk about his father, but Harry wanted to know about his Mum as well.

After leaving the office, Harry slowly walked back up to the dorm reviewing his entire encounter with Snape. The man had seemed so...cross to hear that Harry remembered that night, but almost maybe a little panicked? And he'd certainly looked relieved when Harry had confirmed just how little he remembered of the night.

An absurd thought occurred to Harry as he approached the Gryffindor common room. It almost seemed like Snape had been there that night, and was terrified that Harry might have known.

 

….

By the time mid October rolled around, Harry could cast a patronus well enough to not only recognize the shape as a stag, but to keep the patronus corporal for a few minutes. Harry still couldn't use it to send a message, and he was wary of testing it against a real Dementor, but Snape seemed pleased with his progress.

When he’d asked Snape if the patronus could be used to signal if he was in danger, Snape had responded in his normal cutting way.

_‘Yes, that's inconspicuous, Potter. If you're ever kidnapped, ask them to close their eyes while you conjure a large, shiny patronus.’_

But he had begrudgingly told Harry that an emergency call method was not a horrible idea, and gave Harry the task of figuring out an effective, yet stealthy, object to use. Harry hadn’t thought of anything acceptable yet, but he still considered it a victory in his quest to prove to Snape that he wasn’t a moron in regards to his own personal safety.

On the Tuesday before the first Hogsmeade weekend of the year, Snape started teaching Harry basic shielding charms. They went over body shielding charms, property shielding charms, and charms to use at night when sleeping. Snape had Harry practise on a classroom cauldron, and it took an embarrassingly long time for Harry to realise that Snape was teaching him how to shield his cauldron from any helpful additions from Malfoy in class.

Harry shook his head, keeping his concentration focused as he tossed stirring sticks at his cauldron to test the shield. They bounced off harmlessly, and Harry smiled. Snape was certainly very subtle in his ways of helping, but Harry did remember Snape warning him about people watching closely at school.

“Sir?” Harry asked, breaking the comfortable silence in the room. Snape was in a good mood, sitting at his desk and correcting essays. A small radio was playing from somewhere behind the desk, at a low enough volume that anyone that happened to wander by in the corridor wouldn't hear it.

“Perfectly cast, Mr Potter?” Snape asked, without looking up.

“Uh, I think so,” Harry said, glancing down at his cauldron again. The shield was invisible, but Harry was pleased to see that waving his own hand in front of the cauldron was possible. It’d be a bad brewing shield if even _he_ couldn’t add ingredients.

“We shall see,” Snape said, and though he didn't move, Harry's eyes darted around the office in anticipation of random ingredients flying at him.

“In class, Potter,” Snape clarified.

“Oh,” Harry said, nodding. He cancelled the spell over the cauldron, and tidied up his workspace.  It was almost half seven, which was time for him to change back into running clothes and go back up to the dorm.

“When will we be testing the patronus with a Dementor?”

Snape looked up at him this time, his quill hovering over an essay.

“With a boggart. I've no desire to deal with an actual Dementor.”

Harry remembered the frozen chill in his nerves and the weakness he'd felt when he faced the Dementors on the train, and quite agreed with Snape.

“You don't...do you know what your boggart is?” Harry asked, suddenly curious if that was the main reason Snape didn't want a Dementor around.

There was silence in the room, and Harry heard a few notes from a Muggle song coming from the radio.

“That is a very personal question, Potter.”

Chastised, Harry twisted his mouth slightly. Harry was accustomed to people always knowing the worst about himself, and he sometimes forgot that others fiercely guarded the privacy they maintained.

“Sorry, sir,” Harry said. “I had just wondered, since you don't seem to be afraid of much, and you've already faced Voldemort.”

Snape's dark eyes were almost piercing, as he seemed to stare through Harry.

“My boggart no longer inspires fear,” Snape evasively answered.

“Really? Why not?” Harry curiously asked.

“Because it has already happened,” Snape curtly responded, going back to his marking.

“Oh,” Harry said, the curiosity dying a quick death in his chest. He'd often thought that something awful had happened in Snape's life, to make him such a cross and dark man, but Harry wasn't quite sure if he wanted to know exactly what it was.

The tension that had been in the room had settled slightly though, and another thought was nagging in the back of Harry's mind.

Picking up his backpack, Harry unfolded a piece of paper from his pocket and uselessly re-read it; the words practically memorized by now.

“Professor,” Harry started, walking up toward the desk. “You said, this summer, that Aunt Petunia gave you custody.”

Snape's eyes were watching him like a hawk, and Harry knew the man was trying to figure out what he was up to.

“Not legally,” Snape clarified.

Harry’s step faltered very slightly, but he continued with his plan nonetheless.

“Right. I, well, I was wondering if you could sign this for me,” Harry said, his words speeding up by the end of the question.

Snape glanced down at the paperwork in his hands, recognising it immediately, likely from collecting so many of the forms over the years from his Slytherins. He raised his eyebrow at Harry.

“I am teaching you how to train yourself to fend against dangers, including an escaped lunatic out searching for you, and you want me to give permission for you to leave school grounds?”

Flustering, and feeling like his last shot was slipping away from him, Harry blurted the first thought that came to mind out.

“You could disguise me as John, like in the summer,” Harry argued. “No one would know.”

“ _I_ would know, Potter!” Snape snapped. “Disguised as John indeed. Risking your life for sweets and butterbeer.”

“It's not about the sweets!” Harry argued back. “I just want to be normal and go to the village like everyone else.”

He angrily folded up the letter and shoved it into his pocket.

“Don't play the pity card with me, Potter,” Snape warned, shaking his finger. “You have no idea what Sirius Black is capable of.”

“Yeah, I do,” Harry angrily said. “He betrayed my parents and killed thirteen people.”

“And tried to kill me too,” Snape nastily said. “His prank was the one your heroic father saved me from. I will not be condoning you going to the village while that demented fool is out on the run.”

“You would have for Draco Malfoy,” Harry replied. He flinched upon seeing Snape's face, reconsidering his response seconds too late.

“Do not assume anything about Slytherin House and how it is run,” Snape hissed. “Draco Malfoy would have begged me, yes, because he is a little prat who has never been taught that he can't always have what he wants. I would have very happily denied him as well.”

“Fine,” Harry grumbled, swinging his backpack up onto his shoulders and storming out of the room. “See you Saturday, sir.”

“Potions class Thursday, Potter,” Snape crisply barked after him.

Harry muttered darkly to himself as he made his way out of the dungeons, the only bright sliver of light cheering him was the fact that Malfoy’s own Head of House didn’t seem to like the little twat either.

...

Even though they’d had a row during the last training lessons, Snape did not send any sort of message cancelling the weekend one. So Harry left extra early for his 7:30 lesson on Saturday morning, deciding to take a twenty-minute jog around the lower dungeons before going to meet Snape. Taking up running was only a cover story, but Harry realised that staying in shape wasn’t necessarily a bad idea.

It was just too bad that he wasn’t all that fond of running.

When he finally showed up at Snape’s office after a few laps, Snape had given him a funny look and brought out a glass of water for him. The lesson went as normal, a bit of theory mixed in with the practical, and Harry had finally mastered a simple shielding spell. They were in the middle of discussing sleeping spells when a loud banging sounded on the office door, as if the person on the other side didn’t expect Snape to be in there.

Snape’s lip curled in irritation, as Harry knew he didn’t like to be interrupted, and he waved his wand at the office door. Harry could hear the muffled voices through the wood, and by the shouting, Harry suspected they were trying to assign blame for something.

“Up, Potter,” Snape finally said, somehow figuring out who was on the other side and what they wanted. The cupboard door behind Snape’s desk, which Harry knew led to his personal quarters, opened on its own and Snape pushed him toward it.

The door was shut firmly behind him, ending any eavesdropping thoughts Harry might have entertained. Harry walked down the short hallway instead, opening the door at the end, and blinking at the unexpectedly bright room that was on the other side.

The floors were still the grey flagstones that were prominent throughout the castle, though these ones didn’t appear nearly as cold as the ones in the hallways.  The walls had been painted a very bright white, almost blindingly so, which made Harry forget that he was in the dungeons of the school. Snape had modern furniture in the room, much like the non-descript and fashionably neutral things at his house in Lower Tarrow, and the same security house picture that had been outside the little office was hung up on the wall by the door.

To Harry’s right was a door leading to the washroom, and then along that was a couch and chair. The wall didn’t reach all the way to the end of the room, and Harry wondered if the opening at the far end of the wall led to Snape’s bedroom. On his left side was a simple galley kitchen done in a light wood colour, and there was a small café table just beyond the line of cabinets. At the edge of the living room area, near the opening to Snape’s bedroom, was a desk and some bookcases. Fairly well set up for a square box of a flat, and Harry was slightly surprised at how Muggle the design was.

There was no TV in this flat though, and Harry bemoaned the lost practise time for the Nintendo games he’d started over the summer.

Unsure of how long Snape would be dealing with the students, Harry wandered over to the desk and looked closely at the map pinned to the wall behind it. It was the same map that had been in his room–no, in the office of Snape’s house–but Snape had added more half circles and city markers. Harry felt a pang of jealousy that Snape had done more research without telling Harry what it was about.

He took his notebook out and started making notes of the random things Snape had scribbled on the map. Not much of it made sense to Harry, but perhaps he’d come across something later that would click. He did notice a post it note on the map over Lower Tarrow, which said _“not on a great circle.”_ Harry had absolutely no idea what that meant, but he wrote it down anyway.

Just as Harry finished skimming the map to see what he’d missed, he heard a bang from the other side of the flat, where the door to Snape’s office was. Snapping his journal shut, Harry darted over to the couch and had just sat down when Snape stormed into the room. Harry looked up with a smile, attempting to look innocent. Snape gave him a queer look, before opening the washroom door.

“The machine is the same here as at the summer house. Make some coffee, Potter, and be prepared to defend your cup with magic,” Snape ordered, before disappearing into the loo and leaving Harry to his own devices.

Harry smiled, slipping easily back into the contented mood that he'd been in most of the summer at Snape's house.

In the kitchen area of Snape’s flat were some unwashed mugs by the sink, a half empty (and cold) pot of tea, several apples and bananas in a bowl, and a stack of papers and books. The books he recognised – Snape had brought them to their previous potions lesson and had been lecturing from them. The papers must have been Snape’s notes, and Harry was curious to see that Snape’s writing was rather sloppy, when he was making notes to himself.

As he filled the coffee maker, Harry’s eyes wandered over the lecture notes until he noticed a word sticking out, from a sheet underneath the top of the pile.

 _John_.

Specifically _John’s_ , and then something else scribbled under the fold of the paper. His curiosity peaked; Harry pressed the button on the coffee maker, happy that it still worked, despite being surrounded by all the magic at Hogwarts, and quietly lifted the sheet of paper out of the pile.

_John’s Tasks_

  * _Obstacle course_
  * _Blind targeting_
  * _Poison verification_
  * _Veritaserum test_
  * _Taken_
  * _Patronus_
  * _Offensive spells_
  * _Hand to hand combat_



Harry smiled at the list and tried to stuff it back into the pile. Snape was certainly taking his task as defence trainer seriously, and though Harry was slightly concerned about some of the items on the list (he absolutely did not want to know if ‘taken’ meant what he thought it did), he felt warm inside to see that Snape was putting as much work into training Harry as he was. Even after the argument they’d had about Harry going into Hogsmeade, Snape wasn’t quitting. For a man who didn’t exactly like Harry, he seemed very determined that Harry be as prepared as possible for his next fight with Voldemort.

Harry hummed to himself as he made the coffee, and wondered about the name on the list. Dumbledore knew about the training, didn’t he? If so, why did Snape use Harry’s disguise name? Perhaps he’d written the list in class, and didn’t want to chance anyone reading over his shoulder? Harry couldn’t imagine anyone ever having the nerve to do that, as the loss to house points would be substantial – so perhaps it wasn’t a student Snape was worried about. Maybe a staff member?

“Don’t look so cheerful this early on a Saturday morning, Potter,” Snape grumbled, taking his grey waistcoat off. “It’s unnatural.”

A smirk settled across Harry’s face as he opened up the cupboard beside the fridge, by habit. Just like in Lower Tarrow, there were two packages of Snape’s favourite biscuits sitting at the front of the shelf. Harry put them on a plate, which was snapped up by Snape, and brought the coffees out to the coffee table.

“Cast your spell,” Snape ordered, sipping from his own cup. Sitting back on the couch, Harry cast the shielding spell Snape had taught him earlier in the week over his cup.

“Okay,” Harry said. He watched, with a growing sense of accomplishment, as Snape conjured a variety of small things and attempted to break the shield that Harry had over his cup. Nothing got through, and Harry felt triumphant. In the split second after he realised he’d been successful, Snape leaned over and smacked him up the back of his head.

“What the bloody hell?” Harry demanded, rubbing the back of his head. A single biscuit, which had been hovering over the plate, dropped into Harry’s cup of coffee and splashed it all over the coffee table.

“It would seem that I’ve won,” Snape smugly said, placing his cup carefully down on the table.

“You cheated!” Harry pointed out. “You hit me!”

“Death Eaters rarely play fair,” Snape calmly informed him.

“I’m starting to think you were one,” Harry muttered, as he stood to fetch some serviettes to clean up the mess. “You seem to fit right in with how they do things.”

The silence that seeped into the room was deafening, and Harry looked up to see an extremely blank expression on Snape’s face. Not a single muscle twitched as Snape stared at Harry, and Harry suddenly had the horrible realisation that his comment had held more truth than jest in it.

Uncomfortable and unsure of what to say, Harry mechanically mopped up the spilled coffee on the table as he tried to think if he should apologise.

“Afraid, Potter?” Snape softly asked, his gaze still very intent. Harry stiffened, recognizing that those two words confirmed what Harry had said. Snape had been a Death Eater.

Harry continued mopping, thinking over the summer, and the training Snape had given him so far. He thought about the truth (as far as Harry knew) Snape had given about his motivations, and remembered the day that Snape had taken him to buy clothing. He also remembered the office-turned-guest room that Snape had given him, and thought about all of the times Snape could have harmed him, but didn’t.

“No,” Harry answered, balling up the serviettes and walking them back to the kitchen rubbish bin. “I’m not afraid, Uncle Sebastian.”

Snape’s lips twisted up into a snarl, and for a second Harry thought he’d hurl another biscuit at Harry.

“I _detest_ that name. Though, it reminds me that you have not been properly thanked for that ride on the Knight Bus during the summer.”

Harry’s eyes widened as he took his spot on the couch again.

“It’s okay. I’ve learned to never take that bus again, unless I absolutely have to,” Harry immediately said. Snape ignored him.

“Perhaps some more physical exercises, yes,” Snape mused, and while he was now smiling, it wasn’t a very pleasant one.

“You can’t really throw dodge balls at me here,” Harry pointed out, feeling a tiny sense of relief. “There’s no private garden to use, and people would definitely ask questions.”

The feeling disappeared quite quickly, as Harry took in the smug look on Snape’s face.

“Ah, but I have an entire dungeon at my disposal.”

….

The lines that Snape had marked on the map most certainly were Great Circles. Harry had found one and a half pages dedicated to them in the book he was reading, detailing their discovery and importance in both the Muggle travel industry and the wizarding one. While he’d experienced apparition in the summer with Snape, and felt sufficiently scrambled upon each landing, Harry could only imagine the amount of energy it consumed and hadn’t even thought of international travel. According to the book, however, great circles were the answer. Somehow the magic worked with them, and allowed wizards and witches to apparate along great circle routes at a significantly reduced energy consumption rate. Harry was fascinated. It was so mundane, the task of long distance travel, but it was something Harry had never thought of.

Of course, in the Muggle world, people had been sitting in cars and jumping on planes for more than fifty years. It had never occurred to Harry to wonder what the wizarding equivalent of that would be.

“Hello there.”

All three glanced up from their books, hands frozen over the pages, guilt flashing across their expressions as if they were up to something. As it was late October, and nothing had actually happened this year for them to get into, it was purely instinct. Harry abruptly shut his mouth, not realising that it had dropped open slightly as he was focused on his reading.

“Hello, Professor,” Harry greeted. He kept his hand on the page of the _General and Practical Magical Advances_ book he was absorbed in, but closed the book. In his past two years at Hogwarts, Harry had learned that Dumbledore, though he seemed not to, noticed everything.

“Hello,” Ron followed up, while Hermione smiled. Professor Dumbledore looked like he’d not originally intended to come into the library, but had been drawn to it nonetheless.

“So good to see young minds constantly learning,” Dumbledore said, smiling. “Harry, if I might have a word?”

He dropped a bag of hard candy sweets on the table and wandered off toward the Restricted Section, expecting Harry to follow.

Shrugging, Harry left the table and had just caught up to Dumbledore when the man started talking.

“Unfortunately I do not bring any good news regarding Sirius Black,” Dumbledore started, though he didn’t sound all that upset. “He has still not been captured.”

“Do you think he’s close to here?” Harry asked, thinking of the Dementors hovering around the castle.

“I certainly believe it’s possible,” Dumbledore said, picking a puce coloured book off the shelf to look at.

“How are your running sessions?”

It was asked innocently, and Harry blinked in surprise.

“You know about the training?”

“Naturally,” Dumbledore said, putting the book back. “I am the Headmaster of the school, Harry. I don’t always know what happens in the school, but I try to keep track of the important things.”

“Of course,” Harry said, distracted by a rather racy looking book on the shelf next to him. _Sensual Spellcasting_.

“They’re going well. He’s even doing physical training.”

“Ah,” Dumbledore said, smiling more to himself than Harry. “Very good. Severus has always had a more hands-on fighting style, much less drama and circumstance than the old days. And are you feeling more confident?”

Harry thought back to his previous two years, of the professors he’d had, and the things he’d faced at the end of each year. They’d reached a window in the library that overlooked the courtyard, and Harry nodded.

“Yes,” Harry answered. “I don’t feel quite as helpless.”

A sad look crossed Dumbledore’s face for a second, but before Harry could think of commenting, it was gone.

“Well, that’s certainly good to hear,” Dumbledore answered instead. “Though I must insist, Harry, that even with this new bout of confidence, that you do not try to sneak out of the castle to Hogsmeade.”

Harry scowled and crossed his arms as he looked out the window.

“Have you spoken to Professor Snape?”

“ _Should_ I have?” Dumbledore asked, his eyes rather bright.

“No,” Harry immediately answered. Clouds were moving in over the courtyards–dark and angry looking ones–and Harry was beginning to expect that the Dementors were causing more foul weather than usual. “He just gave me the same warning, but...in different words.”

Dumbledore hummed in amusement, and for a second, all Harry could think of was a merry hive of bumblebees.

“Much stronger words, I imagine,” Dumbledore said. “None the less, Professor Snape was wise to warn you, and Harry, it is for your own safety. I'm sure your friends would be most willing to bring back sweets and Zonkos amusements for you.”

They'd started walking back toward the table, and Harry felt like he'd never leave the school. Dumbledore was usually the one to turn a blind eye to him breaking the rules, but even he had put his foot down.

“Probably,” Harry distractedly said. Over by the front of the library the door opened, and Harry spotted Professor Lupin walking in.

“Professor,” Harry suddenly asked, still looking at Lupin. “Is it true that Professor Snape hates Professor Lupin?”

Harry looked over just in time to see the smile form under Dumbledore's beard.

“I believe they are not fond of each other, no,” Dumbledore said. “But that, my boy, is not a tale for me to tell.”

“Well I'm not going to ask Snape,” Harry immediately said. “He gets cross every time I mention Defence class.”

“Professor Snape, Harry,” Dumbledore gently reminded. “While there is another person, Professor Lupin, that you can ask for the story, don't forget to listen to both sides.”

And with that, Dumbledore strolled off, leaving the candy at the desk, and Harry very confused as Hermione tried to catch his attention.

….

Harry planned to spend Friday night moping around in his bed. All of his options to get to Hogsmeade had run out, and even though he knew that it was dangerous to go with Sirius Black on the loose, part of him felt like the danger was being over played. He was also tired of hearing everyone talk about how awesome the village was, what treats they would get, and how much butterbeer they'd drink.

“What'd the book do to you?” Ron asked, startling Harry as he came into the room. Harry had been holding onto his summer notebook, the one with all his memories of Voldemort, and been doodling.

“Nothing,” Harry moodily responded.

“Come on Harry, it's the weekend,” Ron prompted, dumping his own bag of books on his bed.

“Leave off,” Harry warned, closing his notebook and tossing it at the end of the bed. He closed his eyes, missing the thoughtful look on Ron's face.

“Don’t get pissy with me, mate, I told you I'd bring you back stuff from Honeydukes.”

“I'm not cross with you, Ron. I just don't want to talk about it,” Harry grumbled.

“Right. Well, good,” Ron answered back, sitting on his bed, with his feet dangling in the space between his bed and Harry's. “Talking's for girls.”

Harry didn't answer, and he fought the urge to cross his arms and have a pout like a proper two-year old.

“So you're bored then,” Ron said, seeming to enjoy irritating Harry.

“ _Yes_ Ron, I'm bored. And not happy.”

“Of course not,” Ron scoffed. “This whole year's been boring!”

“What are you talking about?” Harry said, sounding slightly exasperated as his eyes remained closed.

“We haven't had to run for our lives yet, have we?” Ron said, a grin on his face. Harry opened one eye suspiciously. “No spiders, no basilisks, no dragons, no Quirrell.”

“I'm actually okay with that,” Harry slowly said, still lying back and leaning against his headboard. He opened his eyes and tried to figure out what Ron was up to, and why he looked so much like his twin brothers at the moment.

“No you're not, mate,” Ron said, smirking. He sounded mischievous, sort of similar to Dudley when Dudley was scheming to get something from Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon. Harry reminded himself that his best friend had grown up with five older brothers, two of them pranksters who were well known by _everyone_ at the school.

“And you're collecting clues about something,” Ron said, snatching Harry's notebook from the foot of Harry's bed.

“Ron,” Harry growled, sitting up straight. He hadn't written anything incriminating in there, but he had made notes about Snape's house, and didn't want to risk whatever punishment Snape had for his friends finding out. “Give that back.”

“Come and get it.”

Harry blinked at him, but Ron had already stood up, and was clutching the notebook tightly.

“It's almost curfew, you can't go far.”

“Guess you'd better catch me, before the professors do and we lose points,” Ron smirked. He darted out the door of the dorm, and it took Harry only a second before he was up and sprinting after his friend.

“Weasley!” Harry yelled, nearly tripping on the last spiral stair down to the common room. He just saw a flash of Ron's plaid shirt as Ron slipped out the portrait hole, and completely ignored Hermione's warning to be careful as he followed. The air in the hallway outside the common room was chillier than inside, but Harry felt his adrenaline racing.

“Come on, Harry,” Ron chirped, half a stair case up and moving to another floor. “I thought you'd taken up running.”

Well, Harry thought. Game on then. With a burst of speed that his friend hadn't been expecting, Harry shot up the stairs after Ron. Ron's laughter echoed in the hallway, and Harry felt his irritation slipping away as he closed in on his friend. Darting through the smaller corridors (in hopes that less teachers would be passing through them), Ron led Harry through the transfiguration wing, down toward charms, and then out past the staffroom. At half eight, they both gave a fleeting wish that no one was currently in the staffroom.

Harry smiled as they progressed, and he started to hear Ron wheeze from the effort of keeping ahead. His longer legs mostly enabled that, but Harry was hot on his tail as they flew past the trophy room. Several students had been in that hall, coming back from the library, but other than a few 'oi watch it!'s, they were trouble free.

The chase finally came to an end when Ron turned the corner toward where a smaller courtyard was, which was down a very short flight of stairs. Harry vaulted over the stair railing without a second thought, crashing into his friend and knocking them both down.

“I'll take this,” Harry said, finally out of breath. He snatched the notebook out of Ron’s hand and shoved it in his pocket.

“Took you long enough,” Ron huffed back, grinning.

“You've got longer legs,” Harry argued.

Harry sat back against the wall with a smirk for a moment. He'd missed going to Ron's house over the summer, but was glad that their friendship hadn’t changed one bit.

“Oooooh, what have we here?”

Peeves' high-pitched voice cackled through the air before the poltergeist itself appeared, floating through the hall.

“Little Gryffindors out past their bedtimes?”

Harry narrowed his eyes at Peeves, and Ron glared.

“There's still ten minutes to curfew.”

“Details, details,” Peeves said, doing somersaults in the air with glee. “Teachers won't be happy if they see you here, after knocking over the suits of armour.”

“The what?” Ron asked, his face a mask of confusion.

Peeves giggled again and dove toward one of the old metal suits of armour at the top of the stairs, knocking it with enough force that it crashed over, causing a domino effect with the three other suits in the corridor they were in. An aggravated shout echoed down the hall, one that sounded like it belonged to Argus Filch.

“Time to go,” Harry gasped, a mixture of danger and fun coursing through him. Ron didn't even bother answering as they both propelled themselves up off the floor, and down the opposite end of the hall.

….

Harry spent Sunday morning wandering around the castle. Everyone who was going to Hogsmeade had left around nine, and Harry didn't want to stay in the mostly empty common room.

He didn't realise he'd gone past the Defence room, until he heard Lupin's voice calling his name.

“I would have thought you'd have gone to Hogsmeade,” Lupin said, a soft smile on his face.

Harry shrugged as he entered the room, his eyes drawn to the cages by the back wall.

“What are those?” Harry asked, curious about the foul looking creatures inside.

“Grindylows,” Lupin happily said. “Upcoming lesson.”

“They look rather mean.”

“Yes, but if they ever catch you, their fingers are very easy to break,” Lupin said. He tapped a teapot on his desk with his wand, and it started to boil away. “Tea?”

“Yes, please,” Harry said, still staring at the cages. He waited a few seconds before trying to ask his next question as casually as he could. “Have you ever caught a lethifold?”

“A lethifold? No, definitely not. They’re very difficult to catch,” Lupin said, pouring out the tea.

“But not impossible. They’re sold as potion ingredients,” Harry countered.

“Rarely,” Lupin slowly said. “I didn’t know you were so knowledgeable in scarce potion ingredients.”

“I’m really not,” Harry denied, laughing it off. “I just saw it in the paper, in the summer.”

“I see. And have you found any more boggarts in the castle?” Lupin teased, offering Harry a cup.

Harry grimaced and chose not to answer. Another thought occurred to him though, and though he would have just asked Snape at their next lesson, Lupin was the Defence teacher so Harry supposed he should be able to answer.

“Professor? Are there any other creatures that would cause...er. That would bring up the bad memories I have like the Dementors?”

Lupin lit up at the question, and spent half an hour telling Harry all about psychological magic and creatures. He pulled several books down from shelves to give examples, and assured Harry that most of the creatures who could cause such trauma weren't found in the UK. Either that, or they worked for the Ministry as guards at Azkaban.

They were interrupted by a sharp knock at the door, and Harry bit his lip to keep the surprise at seeing Snape from showing on his face.

“Lupin,” Snape curtly said, swiftly entering the room. His robes twirled around his legs as he walked, and Harry heard the distinctive click of Snape’s dress shoes on the stone floor. He felt Snape’s assessing gaze on him, and shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“Ah, Severus. Thank you so much,” Lupin said, watching Snape place the steaming goblet down on his desk.

“You should drink that immediately,” Snape said, with a look on his face that clearly expressed his desire that Lupin choke on the potion as well.

“I shall,” Lupin said, finishing off his tea. He gave the goblet a foul look, as if the mere steam from it was off-putting.

“See that you do,” Snape said, giving Harry another sharp glare. It was the same look he’d had on his face back in the summer, when the Dursleys were making their opinion on keeping Harry well known. Harry wondered why Snape would be looking like that again, as he didn’t think Lupin was any sort of threat.

“Potter, I am still waiting on your assignment from three weeks ago,” Snape nastily said, and Harry scrambled for a moment to think of what it was. He’d practiced his patronus and shielding charms though, so the only thing that came to mind was the private warning system he’d talked to Snape about.

“See that your busy social calendar doesn’t prevent you from turning it in _this week_ ,” Snape finished, before swirling his robes and gliding out the door.

“Well that was rather dramatic,” Lupin quietly said, catching Harry’s attention and making Harry smile.

“Aren’t you worried he's going to poison you?” Harry asked, pointing at the goblet to distract Lupin from asking about Harry’s assignment. “I know he doesn't like you.”

“Harry Potter,” Lupin protested, his smile crinkling up the sides of his eyes. “You don't honestly think Professor Snape would poison me, do you?”

Harry tried to look as if he were seriously considering the question, remembering clearly the night that Snape had thrown together his Muggle and magical cold cure into a glass and drank it. He also remembered how Snape had managed to hide the taste, when he'd snuck the same concoction into Harry's hot chocolate a few nights after.

“He poisons himself. I wouldn't put it past him,” Harry honestly answered.

Lupin let out a bark of laughter and reached for the goblet.

“He does tend to have that look about him, doesn’t he?” Lupin said, leaning in to speak in a lower voice. “As if he’s just had something repugnant to drink.”

“That’s usually the look he has on his face when he looks at me,” Harry joked, feeling a small, yet strange, sense of guilt for having a laugh at Snape.

….

 

The Hallowe’en feast was just as spectacular as the year before, and Harry felt a happy warmth spread inside him as he ate a second helping of pumpkin pie. It had been a most interesting weekend, between the training with Snape, the chat with Lupin, the spoils of Hogsmeade, and now the feast. Harry still felt a pang of disappointment for not being able to go to Hogsmeade, but the next weekend wasn’t until December, and Harry hoped Black would be caught by then so he could go.

That was, until they’d tried to get back to the dormitory, and seen the slashed mess that was left of the Fat Lady’s portrait. Harry’s blood had run cold at the words of Peeves, learning that Sirius Black had been in the castle. All desire to go to Hogsmeade was forgotten, as Harry realised just how close Black had been to entering the common room, steps from where Harry normally slept.

As Harry lay next to his two friends in the Great Hall, in the surprisingly comfortable purple sleeping bags Dumbledore had conjured, his mind raced over everything Snape had taught him so far. He’d felt confident before, knowing he’d practised darting away from spells and debris, and that he could hit a target with fairly consistent accuracy in the middle of the night. He could shield his cauldron from explosions, and was learning how to shield himself while he slept. But it wasn’t enough. Harry knew it wasn’t enough, and this was the first time this year that he’d felt unsafe in the castle.

“Headmaster?”

Snape’s voice interrupted his thoughts, and Harry strained to eavesdrop without appearing obvious. He listened to the words that Snape was not saying, in Snape’s rather smooth attempt to circumvent Percy’s curiosity.

“Should the boy be moved somewhere safer?” Snape asked, after finally telling Percy to go check on some noisemaking students in another corner.

“He is safe here,” Dumbledore said, and the volume change of his voice told Harry that he’d turned his head in Harry’s direction.

A memory of the first night at Snape’s house in the summer, when he’d heard all the odd noises and the wind against the windows, and thought he’d seen the dog, assaulted Harry’s mind. He pulled the sleeping bag tighter automatically, curling up onto his side.

“I don’t suspect Sirius Black will have stayed around,” Dumbledore continued, his voice very soft.

“Perhaps not this time,” Snape immediately answered, and his doubt was rather evident.

“Severus,” Dumbledore warned.

“I have expressed my concerns more than once with you,” Snape hissed, and Harry realised this time that the hissing was from anger more so than the desire to be unheard. “Ever since your announcement this summer…”

“Severus, I am quite certain that Sirius Black has not had any help getting into the castle,” Dumbledore interrupted in a no-nonsense tone. “Between our protection and the Dementors, I do not believe that this will happen again.”

“Forgive me if I do not share the same confidence in the castle’s wards,” came Snape’s waspish reply. Harry opened his eyes in surprise, as he’d never heard Snape talk back so strongly against Dumbledore.

Snape’s dark eyes were staring right back, and Harry was caught. Dumbledore was facing the other way, but there was no way that Snape didn’t know that Harry was awake and listening. Instead of saying anything though, Snape flicked his wand toward Harry and muttered a spell. It took only a second to take effect, and Harry felt as if another warm blanket had been dropped on him. He realised that Snape had done some sort of shielding spell on him, so Harry could sleep with relative safety.

Harry replayed the conversation in his mind after both Snape and Dumbledore had walked off, wondering whom Snape was so concerned about. It must have been a person, as Dumbledore had mentioned Black having help getting into the castle, and Harry highly doubted that any of the Hogwarts ghosts would be helping a felon. Snape had also mentioned something about an announcement, but the only one that had stuck out during the opening feast was Professor Lupin’s introduction as the newest Defence Against the Dark Arts professor. Was that what Snape had meant?

An image started to form behind Harry’s eyes, resembling a sort of tightly knit web. Sirius Black and his father had known each other, based on the information Harry had been told about the prank that had almost killed Snape. Lupin, though it hadn’t been confirmed that he knew Black, also knew Snape from when they’d both been at Hogwarts. And Harry suspected that Lupin also knew his father, because on the train, Lupin had known Harry’s name without needing an introduction. While Harry knew he was famous and somewhat recognizable in public, his scar had been hidden on the train. The only way Lupin would have known who he was was to have known Harry’s dad. Everyone always told Harry he looked exactly like his dad.

From the sounds of it, Snape was concerned that Professor Lupin was still friends with Sirius Black, and was the one letting him into the castle.

Harry stretched in his bag, still enjoying the warmth of Snape’s spell, but well aware that he wouldn’t be getting to sleep any time soon. Professor Lupin, Sirius Black, Professor Snape, and James Potter; four people who seemed to be intricately connected to each other, and to Harry as well. A father, an enemy, a potential friend or foe, and Snape - a man who had started as an enemy (Harry quietly snorted as he remembered how they’d first thought him a vampire in first year), but who had proven to be very protective of Harry. It was too much to figure out without proper facts, and Harry was not looking forward to researching everything with Hermione. Both he and Ron had a private bet to see who could make it through their entire seven years of school without reading _Hogwarts, a History_ , and it was increasingly looking like Harry was going to lose.

Harry stared up at the open sky in the Great Hall’s ceiling, testing himself on the constellations he could see. Such a large sky out there, and yet inside the castle, Harry was feeling slightly claustrophobic as the names ran through his mind once more. The wizarding world, which had once seemed so large and full of mystery and new people everywhere, was turning out to be a lot smaller than Harry had ever imagined.

Just before falling asleep, Harry spotted the Sirius star in Canis Major. He wondered for a moment if Sirius Black had been named after it, as he knew of other wizards that were given astronomy names. The Dog Star, Harry thought, shifting uncomfortably in his sleep, remembering the giant black dog from the summer.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Great circles do exist, and you can even find circle mappers if you search for them on the internet. They are used for travel, and they're actually quite interesting to read about. Unfortunately, you won't find any information on how wizards use them for apparition, as the internet is run by Muggles...


	6. Chapter 6

November passed as a blur for Harry. He was making every effort possible to not think of the quidditch match, and the spectacle he’d made falling out of the sky after seeing the Dementors. Of course, Draco Malfoy was doing his damndest to remind Harry at every turn, but Harry knew hexing him wouldn’t be worth the punishment.

He kept the splintered bits of his Nimbus wrapped up in an old towel, out of sight at the bottom of his trunk.

He kept fairly busy though, between studying for classes, his lessons, and mediating the arguments between Ron and Hermione. Crookshanks seemed dead-set on attacking Scabbers, and Hermione had taken Ron’s anger about the whole thing as a personal attack.

Harry had progressed fairly well with his lessons, to the point that he cast a shielding spell over his class cauldron without a second thought and had branched out to learning personal shields. He’d even come up with an answer to Snape’s assignment of the danger marker, which was a small tattoo on his hand that, when pressed, sent a signal out.

Harry had thought the idea genius, himself. The mark would resemble a mole on the inside lower knuckle on his pinkie finger. He could press it with the thumb on the same hand, in case he was ever detained, and it required an odd enough finger movement that he wouldn’t hit it by accident. Snape’s face had taken a rather disconcerting expression at Harry’s idea, and it took Harry another hour in the library to find out why.

Still, even though Voldemort used it for his followers, Harry argued that a tattoo wasn’t necessarily a bad idea if it was used the way that Snape wanted Harry to: as an emergency call, to be used only when Harry’s life was legitimately in danger.  Snape tabled the idea, and while he didn’t outright say no, he sent Harry back to the drawing boards to see what other methods of emergency tracking he could find.

In between studying for classes, listening to Hermione bemoan the mark on her essay that Snape had set for Defence ( _‘but how does Lupin know that werewolves don’t get fleas? It’s not in any book I’ve found’_ ), and researching parental tracking methods; the Weasley twins introduced Harry to an entirely new way of tracking the residents in a giant building.

….

Harry’s shoulder glanced off a jutting piece of rock as he ran down the tunnel toward the school. It spun him slightly, and he stumbled for a second, but picked right back up and ran faster. Harry was fairly certain that the last time he’d run this hard had been when the basilisk was chasing him. He’d only been 75% sure that the basilisk would kill him, but this time–this time–if Harry didn’t get back to the castle before Draco Malfoy did, he had absolutely zero doubt that he was going to die. And somehow, he knew Snape’s methods would be worse than the basilisk’s.

As the incline of the path began to steepen, Harry felt a faint flare of hope that he’d make it back to the castle in time. Draco had had a head start, but he would have also needed to find Snape to report Harry’s head floating above the ground outside the Shrieking Shack. Reaching the end of the tunnel, Harry gasped out the password and slipped back into the school corridor. He could hear heavy footsteps pounding down the hall around the corner, and wiped his muddy hands as fast as he could on the inside of his jeans. There weren’t many places he could hide, so he started walking as quickly and as quietly as he could away from the statue.

“Potter!” Snape bellowed, his angry voice echoing down the hall. “Come with me, now!”

Harry gulped, feeling uncharacteristically guilty for the lie he was about to tell.

“Sir?” Harry asked, feigning innocence. “I dropped a galleon when I ran into Neville, and came back to get it.”

Harry was not prepared for the look of utter disappointment to flash over Snape’s face.

“One more word and you will be in detention for the rest of this school year,” Snape warned, pointing down the hall toward his office.

…

They did not go into Snape’s private flat. Instead, Harry sat in the uncomfortable visitor’s chair in Snape’s office, trying his best not to squirm under Snape’s unnerving glare. He’d been made to turn out his pockets, and Snape had studied each object (Zonko’s bag, two galleons, seven sickles, and a knut, the blank Marauder’s map, _empty_ Honeyduke’s candy wrapper), but hadn’t said a word. Harry could tell he was fuming.

“It was me!” Ron suddenly gasped, bursting into the room and seeming not to notice the tension between Snape and Harry. “I bought –that –stuff from –Zonkos –ages ago.”

He was holding his side, as if he’d gotten a stitch from running all the way back from Hogsmeade, and his eyes were wild.

“Get out, Weasley,” Snape snapped, not even turning to look at Ron.

“But,” Ron started, staring between Harry and the stuff on Snape’s desk.

“OUT!”

Harry winced as the door slammed shut, but didn’t try to shield his eyes away from Snape. He’d been remarkably stupid to taunt Draco from under the invisibility cloak, and though he knew most of the regret he felt was for disobeying his orders to stay in the castle, part of it was for getting caught on his first time out.

“So. Famous Harry Potter has decided the rules don’t apply to him, regardless of who is out there trying to kill him,” Snape started, his voice surprisingly soft for how mad he was. Snape was leaning over his own desk, his eyes flashing with anger as he glared at Harry.

And Harry knew he was in deep trouble. _Famous Harry Potter_ , that definitely wasn’t good. Snape liked John over the summer, tolerated John and was begrudgingly pleased with John’s defence achievements. Snape did not like Harry Potter.

“Tell me, exactly, what crossed your little defunct mind when you decided to go against my direct order and go to Hogsmeade,” Snape demanded, his voice soft and dangerous. “Why you thought Sirius Black, a man who has already broken into this castle, wouldn’t easily pick you off the street like a hawk snatching a mouse.”

Harry started to open his mouth, but shut it again. He didn’t have a valid reason. And he knew just how well Snape would take being lied to again.

“Was it worth it?” Snape continued, remaining behind his desk. Harry didn’t know if it was to distance himself from Harry, or because Snape was itching to smack him.

“It was…I thought it would be. I wanted to have fun,” Harry said, unsure of where the catch in his voice came from. The last time he’d cried when he’d been admonished was when he was three, and Aunt Petunia had scolded him that only worthless little boys wet their beds.

“That’s what your father’s excuse always was. He just wanted to have fun,” Snape said, nearly spitting out the last words. “And now his son, told specifically that there is a deranged lunatic after him, decided to go out to Hogsmeade regardless, _for fun_. That is your official excuse, Potter? You reason for going?”

Harry shook his head, meeting Snape’s glare. Once he’d gotten back to the tunnel, and was running back to school, Harry had very clearly realised that all of his excuses for going were rather pathetic.

“I didn’t have a reason.”

Snape’s face contorted into an ugly expression.

“Oh? Is that what you want on your headstone then, Potter? _I didn’t have a reason_?”

“No,” Harry ground out. “ _The Boy Who Had a Life_ would be fine.”

His hand flew up to his mouth, as if to physically stop anything else from coming out, and he could almost hear the muscles in Snape’s arm straining to reach out and strangle Harry. There was silence in the room for another few seconds, and while Snape seemed to have calmed down very slightly, Harry could see his hands clenched into fists.

“Obviously, despite what I have tried to teach you, you do not have a single regard for your well-being,” Snape said, his lips very tight, but his voice pulled together enough that Harry didn’t think he was going to get hexed. “As such, your lessons are done. Good luck in your endeavours, Potter, and remove yourself from my office immediately.”

“What?” Harry blurted, knocking over the chair as he bolted out of it. “But I still need help! I don’t…I can’t fight Voldemort now!”

Snape stared at him with the most impassive expression Harry had ever seen, and Harry felt a flush of coldness as he was thrown back to the first day of potions class, when Snape had made it very clear that he found Harry to be as irritating as an insignificant stone caught in the tread of his shoe.

“I rather agree, however, it is no longer my concern,” Snape answered. Harry felt a rather strong push of magic shepherding him to the door, and as he turned to plead his case, the only thing he saw was the door to Snape’s private office slamming shut behind the man. His things were still on the desk; as if Snape cared so little to not even bother confiscating them.

….

Harry almost felt like he was going to cry. It was an utterly bizarre sensation, and as he wandered around the castle, he tried to convince himself that he wasn’t even that upset. He didn’t even like Snape.

But that wasn’t exactly true anymore.

He passed the Great Hall, where Hagrid and Flitwick were cheerfully arguing about the best way to decorate the giant Christmas trees. Flitwick was arguing for a themed look, whereas Hagrid seemed to enjoy a more chaotic decorating sense. Harry found himself wondering what Snape’s style was, and if he even bothered with a tree in Lower Tarrow. As far as Harry could remember, Snape spent the holidays at Hogwarts.

Even though he knew the cancelled lessons were his fault, Harry allowed himself to wallow in self-pity as he’d made his way back up to the Gryffindor common room. He could always take up Lupin’s offer for patronus lessons after the holidays, but Harry somehow knew they wouldn’t be as good as Snape’s.

“Oh good, I thought he’d tried to murder you,” Ron exhaled, as Harry came back through the portrait. “Did he take all your stuff?”

“No,” Harry blandly said, passing through the empty room for the boys’ dorm. Both Hermione and Ron followed, but Harry didn’t offer any more information. He just went into the room, and climbed up onto his bed.

“What happened, Harry?” Hermione asked, sitting at the edge of his bed. Harry was by the headboard, his arms wrapped around his knees. None of his other dorm-mates had returned from Hogsmeade yet, and there was a raucous game of gobstones happening in the common room. 

Harry closed his eyes for a second, wondering exactly how much he should tell his friends, and how they would react. He scratched the back of his neck out of habit, his fingers finding the nametag on his jumper. This one did not say H Potter, as the jumper wasn’t his. It was one that Snape had thrust at Harry when they’d gone to the café to meet Snape’s potion supplier, and the faded tag said S Snape.

“Snape threw me out of his office,” Harry started, his voice still low. Jeers and laughter from the younger students playing echoed up the stairwell, and Harry scowled.

“Well that’s not too bad, is it?” Ron asked, confusion on his face. “He’s not making you scrub bedpans, is he?”

“No,” Harry answered, with a depreciating huff. “He’s also cancelling all of my defence lessons. Because I’m not worth teaching.”

There was silence in the room for a moment, and Harry reached over to grab his summer notebook from the bedside cabinet. This was the one he’d made his own observations in, and had not shown Snape the contents.

“I told you he hadn’t lost any weight,” Hermione finally said, glancing at Ron.

Affronted, Harry looked down at himself.

“What? I’m not fat!”

“That’s a bit rude, Hermione,” Ron interjected.

“No,” Hermione said, rolling her eyes. “Harry’s been running twice a week, ever since he came back to school. But he’s never lost any weight. So the running’s been a cover for…defence lessons with Snape?”

“Oh,” Harry said, still self conscious about how he looked. “Yeah. It started over the summer, he took me from the Dursleys after I blew up Aunt Marge.”

Ron looked blessedly confused, as Harry had never told his friends that he’d left the Dursleys, but he didn’t seem to be angry, which Harry thought was a positive sign.

“So, you’ve been willingly taking private defence lessons with Snape? The evil git?” Ron asked, and Harry shrugged his shoulders a little. Not quite angry, but a bit put out he’d been lied to.

“Who better, Ron? He’s fought Voldemort, and you should have seen him when he offered. He was really cross that I’m expected to fight off Voldemort when I’m just a kid, and no one’s properly taught me how.”

“That makes sense, Harry,” Hermione nodded. “After all, he did save your life in first year, and you’ve been pretty lucky so far, but…”

“Yeah, thanks,” Harry glumly said. “I’m well aware that my luck’s running out.”

“Is he any good at teaching?” Ron asked, sceptical. “He’s a bastard teaching potions, and if he’s like that in tutoring, you should be happy right now.”

Harry could see the logic, as he’d also been damned surprised to find out that Snape was a good deal more patient when teaching one on one.

“Do you remember Lupin getting rid of the Dementors on the train?” Harry asked instead, drawing out his wand. His friends nodded, and Harry concentrated on the ecstatic feeling he’d had upon finding out he was a wizard, and that he was leaving the Dursleys.

“ _Expecto patronum_!” Harry called, and was satisfied to see his silvery stag shoot forth from the wand. He still couldn’t hold the spell that long to fend off a Dementor (Snape had found a boggart three weeks earlier, and Harry had indeed proceeded to pass out several times), but it was still an impressive patronus.

“WHOA!” Ron exclaimed, slinking off his bed, his entire focus on the patronus as he walked around it. Even Hermione looked impressed, and, to Harry’s not quite surprise, slightly jealous.

“He taught you that?” Ron asked, holding his hand out to the stag. Harry already knew from experience that the stag would nuzzle Ron’s hand, a rather ticklish feeling.

“Yeah. And scoffed at Professor Lupin, for not thinking to teach me right away.”

Harry let the stag go, feeling the same warm and accomplished feeling inside that he had the very first time he’d conjured it successfully.

“I really didn’t want to start liking him, Harry,” Ron deadpanned, and Harry laughed for the first time since being Hogsmeade.

“Ron!” Hermione warned, but she was smiling too.

“It doesn’t matter now anyway,” Harry said, losing his smile as he shook his head. “Snape cancelled the lessons, and made it very clear that he wants nothing to do with me. He said it was obvious that I still had no regard for my own life.”

“Yeah, right,” Ron said, sprawling onto his own bed and unearthing Scabbers from the blankets at the end of it. “I’d like to see Snape resist going to Hogsmeade, with an invisibility cloak.”

“Is that exactly what he said, Harry?” Hermione asked, giving him a calculating gaze.

Harry nodded, trying to not get upset as he remembered Snape’s exact words. “He agreed that I’m not ready to fight Voldemort yet, but said that it wasn’t his problem anymore.”

“Well. You have to show him that it is,” Hermione immediately answered, a smile taking over her face. She looked like she’d just finished a particularly difficult essay.

“Show him that I still don’t know everything?” Harry asked, not quite seeing where Hermione was going with her response. From Ron’s expression, Harry could tell that Ron hadn’t a clue either.

“No,” she smirked, leaning against one of Harry’s bedposts. “You need to impress him. Show him that you are willing to learn, and that you want to.”

“I really don’t think that’ll work,” Harry doubtfully said. “He’s taken probably two hundred points from you, for doing that exact same thing.”

“Yes,” Hermione said, flushing slightly. “But, he’s never offered to teach me outside of class. Harry, he’s probably insulted, and thinks that you don’t care about his efforts.”

“Of course I do,” Harry immediately answered. He’d never thought about it before, but it was rather evident now. “All right, so how do I impress him?”

“It’s Snape,” Ron scoffed. “How can anyone impress him?”

“Well, he’s a Slytherin. They’re pretty smart,” Hermione mused, ignoring Ron. She paused for a second, likely thinking of Crabbe and Goyle. “Usually,” she amended.

“Wait, there is something,” Harry said, unsure if he’d later regret laying all his cards out. “Last year, in Professor Dumbledore’s office after we rescued Ginny, Dumbledore said that Voldemort was in Albania.”

Ron nodded, clearly remembering the conversation. Hermione was paying rapt attention, and Harry knew she was itching to take notes.

“Snape’s been studying great circles and such, and he was told in the summer that there was a giant shipment of weird potion things being sent off to Albania.”

“Great circles?” Hermione asked, picking up on the unfamiliar term.

“They make apparition really easy, and you can go really far,” Harry explained, unable to help feeling slightly smug that he knew something Hermione didn’t.

“Which would make it easy for You-know-who to travel back and forth between England and Albania,” Hermione pondered.

“Yeah,” Harry agreed.

“And he’s using the potion ingredients?” Ron asked.

“I don’t know,” Harry admitted. “It just seems a bit suspicious, that these weird things are being shipped to Albania, and that’s where Voldemort’s supposed to be.”

“What are they?” Hermione pressed. She’d given up on sitting still, and snatched a workbook from Seamus’s bed. One page was torn out, and Hermione was scribbling on it.

“Uh,” Harry said, flipping through his notes to double check.  “Graphorn, runespoor, and lethifold. Maybe lethifold.”

Ron shuddered visibly on his bed.

“The spiders were horrible last year. If there’s a real lethifold, I’m not going to help with this,” Ron warned.

“There isn’t,” Harry assured him. “Someone else bought it, not Snape. Not that I know of.”

“Okay, so we’ll do some more research on these, to show that you’ve been paying attention and you want to figure it all out too,” Hermione said, still taking notes.

“We?” Ron asked. She ignored him completely.

“And you could also teach yourself another spell, to show him you’re serious about learning defence.”

Harry thought about his assignment from November, of the marker. He still thought his tattoo idea was brilliant, but maybe he could come up with a plan b.

A sudden hissing noise broke up the brainstorming, and Hermione jumped off the bed as an orange ball of fur leapt toward Ron.

“Get that thing out of here!” Ron yelled, covering Scabbers with his blanket to protect the rat from Crookshanks.

“He’s a cat! That’s what they do!” Hermione answered, all flustered. She did scoop up Crookshanks though, and stormed out of the dorm room.

“Stupid cat,” Ron muttered.

Both Harry and Ron watched her go, and Harry turned a confused look at Ron’s next statement.

“You should buy him something too.”

“What?” Harry asked. Ron was burying Scabbers back between the blankets, to keep him safe.

“Whenever we’ve cheesed off Mum, we buy her something for the house. Or a new Warbeck record,” Ron said, a very slight hint of a blush on his face. “She’s still angry, but a bit less so, because we’ve been thoughtful.”

Harry contemplated that for a moment, running through memories of the Lower Tarrow house in his mind.

“You think Snape would fall for that?”

“Well, not a Warbeck record,” Ron conceded. “But he might. I don’t reckon he gets a lot for Christmas.”

“Hm,” Harry hummed. “I can’t go back to Hogsmeade.”

“No,” Ron scoffed. “Too bad you can’t get one of Santa’s elves to shop for you.”

Harry laughed.

“I wonder if they’d look like house elves,” he joked.

“Of course they do,” Ron said, a mixture of seriousness and disbelief on his face, as if he couldn’t imagine how Harry wouldn’t know that.

Harry’s jaw opened a bit, and he narrowed his eyes.

“ _Are_ they house elves?”

“Sure,” Ron said. “How else do you expect he gets to all those houses on Christmas Eve?”

The door opened again, cutting off Harry’s confused thoughts.

“Well? Are you two coming to the library, or not?” Hermione asked, hands on her hips. “We should visit Hagrid later, as well.”

“Fine,” Ron grumbled, getting off his bed. “It’s only Christmas holiday, why shouldn’t we be in the library?”

“Hang on,” Harry said, picking up his notebook and moving slowly as his friends left the room ahead of him. “Santa’s a wizard?”

…..

The library was as empty as one would expect it to be on the first Saturday evening of Christmas holiday. Hermione set up a command centre of sorts, procuring a large sheet of parchment from Madame Pince and making a chart of ingredients.  The sections for runespoor and graphorn filled rather quickly, as both were used in a variety of different potions. The lethifold section, however, remained stubbornly empty until Ron happened upon a mention of the leather in a sports book.

“Look, right here,” Ron said, his voice confident and proud as he’d been the first to find something.

“Lethifold leather was originally used for a sort of rugby game for kids, but they stopped using it because it kept slipping away.”

Harry was writing that down as quickly as he could, and Ron continued.

“It was also used to make Keeper gloves, however the leather kept constricting the wearer’s hands, and causing their fingers to go numb.”

“That doesn’t sound pleasant,” Hermione tusked, skimming through an older version of _Fantastic Beasts._ “But then, lethifolds aren’t. They sneak into bedrooms when people are sleeping, smother them, and suck the life out of them.”

“And then,” Ron continued, still excited about his find and not paying attention to Hermione. “It was discovered by a group of potion masters in Northern Ireland that using lethifold leather to line the inside of a cauldron will allow properties of the lethifold to infuse into the brew.”

“That’s creepy,” Harry said.

“Figures someone like You-know-who would find a use for it,” Ron muttered, going back to the book.

Harry had stumbled across a stack of old _Daily Prophets_ , and was trying to keep himself calm as he read about Sirius Black. Snape had accused him of not knowing the danger, so Harry was researching Black as well. It seemed like his parents had known Sirius Black well enough to name him as Harry’s godfather, and Harry felt his stomach churn. How had his dad been such a bad judge of character, to keep such a man as his best friend?

“Do you really want him to teach you?” Ron suddenly asked, startling Harry out of his thoughts. “I mean, Lupin’s so much…nicer.”

Harry looked up and shrugged apologetically at Ron.

“Nice isn’t going to help me the next time Voldemort tries to kill me,” Harry bluntly said.

“Well you never know,” Ron stubbornly answered. “Don’t the Muggles have a saying about ‘kill them with kindness’?”

Harry let out an honest laugh, feeling much better than he had earlier.

….

Harry made the walk to Dumbledore’s office early on Christmas Eve morning. He’d written his request out in a note, figuring Dumbledore might not be awake (and ready for visitors at six am), and planned to ask the guardian gargoyle to pass along his note.

It was a simple request, really. He and Ron had gotten into a long discussion the night before on what would be the best gift to break the ice with Snape. Ron had suggested a book, or something potion-y, or coffee since Snape liked it so much. When Harry protested that he had no idea what type of coffee, or what genre of book Snape liked to read, Ron had just shrugged.

“Dad’s never told me off for giving him the wrong type,” Ron had said.

“Your dad isn’t Snape,” Harry had muttered in return. The phrase had stuck in his head for the rest of the evening, as Snape wasn’t Harry’s dad either, and yet, he was not only upset that the man had turned him away, but actively thinking of ways to resume their twice-weekly training sessions.

“Could you give this to Professor Dumbledore?” Harry asked, finally reaching the Headmaster’s office. He didn’t want to go in, even if Dumbledore was there, because Harry didn’t want to explain why he needed such a last minute gift, when owl orders had been going out all month. And from a Muggle store, no less.

After dropping the note in a post box to the left of the gargoyle (which in his two and a half years at Hogwarts, Harry had never noticed before), he proceeded down to the Great Hall. Breakfast wouldn’t start until 7, but the fires would be lit already in the fireplaces, and Harry could sit quietly and watch the sparkling trees. The Dursleys had never really put much effort into their Christmas tree, and Harry found the ones at Hogwarts were always just as magical as the school itself.

The tree Harry chose to sit beside was done in blues, silvers, and whites, with fine silvery garland string wrapped around it. He huddled on the bench, even though the fireplace was quite warm, and thought about the year so far. Five months gone without Sirius Black being captured, though the man had managed to get into Hogwarts. Not a single word from his relatives since the night they’d told Snape off (not all together surprising), learning how to cast a patronus–something even seventh years had trouble with, and losing his broomstick at the last quidditch match.

And the lessons.

Harry was trying to avoid thinking about how much he enjoyed the lessons. How Snape no longer treated him like an idiot, and how Snape pushed him harder and harder, knowing Harry could handle things.

His head snapped up as he thought he heard a sound, withdrawing his wand and not pointing it at the door but keeping it tightly gripped in his hand. A dark figure was leaning against the doorjamb, studying him, and Harry didn’t know how long Snape had been standing there.

His first instinct was to explain why he’d not noticed Snape right away, like he often did in the lessons when he’d not performed at his best, but before Harry could utter a single word, Snape spun from the doorway and disappeared into the dark hallway.

…

Neither Harry nor Ron really enjoyed Divination class, but they both had to admit that Professor Trelawney made Christmas dinner rather humorous. Harry paid close attention when a fight nearly broke out with dessert, when Trelawney insisted on Christmas pudding for all, and dark mutterings about ‘revolting fruitcake meatloaf’ came from Snape.

Harry was the first to stand from the table, closely followed by Ron, earning himself more dire predictions about being the first to rise from a table of thirteen. Privately, Harry didn’t think his luck could get any worse, so he shrugged off Trelawney’s warnings. When he and Ron had reached the staircases, Ron turned bright red and took off down the hall, stammering about not sending a Christmas owl to his family. Harry laughed, and proceeded back up to the dorm on his own. Hermione had stayed behind to ask McGonagall something, so Harry figured he had a good twenty minutes to go up and admire his new Firebolt again.

Christmas hadn’t turned out too horribly. Snape had not made a single mention of the parcel Harry had sent him (coffee from a near-ish Muggle village, plus a copy of all of Harry’s research and observations over the last four months), but Harry wasn’t surprised. He’d not seen the man all day, and Harry knew that making a scene during the Christmas supper in the Great Hall was not something Snape would ever do. Still, Harry had caught the assessing black eyes on him more than once at dinner, and had been a tad unsettled by their steady gaze as he left the room.

“Happy Christmas, Potter!” a young, male voice suddenly called, as Harry’s stairs took a swing toward the seventh floor corridor. Instead of turning to see who it was, Harry’s instincts told him to duck.

He scrambled up the stairs just as a large rock sailed just over his head, adrenaline already racing through his system. The voice behind him was laughing–no, voices, there were two–and Harry could tell that at least one of them was on the same set of moving stairs as he.

“ _Aguamenti_!” Harry yelled, twisting around and pointing his wand in the general direction of the voice. His spell was strong, and Harry was hoping to knock his assailant off balance with the jet of water. He caught a vague glimpse of student robes, before the second assailant, on the floor below, cast the strongest _nox_ Harry had ever experienced. The staircase hallway plunged into darkness and the portraits started gasping and shouting, though the stairs never stopped moving.

Harry was used to the dark. He’d grown up in it.

Clutching his wand, Harry scrambled further up the stairs, able to use his hands to figure out the top ledge. It wasn’t quite to the corridor yet, and though he could jump and most likely escape down the hall to his dorm, he wasn’t sure how big of a gap there was, and if the assailants knew how to get into the dorm.

Another rock flew at him, and this one glanced off of Harry’s left shoulder. He bit back a grunt, keeping silent enough to not give away his position, and made his choice. Springing up from the steps suddenly, he jumped into the darkness and crossed his fingers. The landing hit not a second later, and Harry had never been more grateful to crash onto a stone floor. While he’d fallen more than seven stories just a month earlier, it had been on the quidditch pitch, and Dumbledore had been there to catch him.

He could hear the assailants cursing, and Harry didn’t get a chance to wonder how they’d known he’d jumped off the stairs. He pulled himself up instead, and took off running toward the Gryffindor common room. There was a little sliver of light that Harry could see, down the hall, and he aimed for it.

He made it six steps before running into a solid object, which put a cloth bag over his head and petrified him.

….

Harry had never been under petrificus totalus before, and as he was carried down several flights of stairs, he found one positive thing about the spell. His entire body was stiff, and though Harry was feeling a complete panic, it wasn’t outwardly obvious. He did, however, feel temperature start to drop as they walked further and further, and his heart figuratively plummeted. Hogwarts likely had all sorts of hidden chambers and rooms like last year’s Chamber of Secrets, and no one probably knew that he’d been kidnapped.

Harry fought his panic, just enough to force himself to think clearly. He’d spent four months learning from Snape, and even though the man hated him now, Harry going to use that training. He started listening to where he was being taken, noting the dampness of the air and the silence, and tried to guess how many levels they’d gone down.

He was taken into a room and placed on a chair, his arms magically restrained but the petrificus totalus spell removed so Harry could sit. It was a wooden high back chair, as uncomfortable as the one in Snape’s office, and Harry could tell by the echo of footsteps that the room he was in was a fair size. The cloth bag was lifted slightly, and Harry wondered if he’d be able to see, before strong fingers grasped his nose and pinched it tight. Harry gasped, his mouth popping open for air as he struggled, and he felt an eyedropper of sorts stuck against his lips. The medicine, potion, or poison within was squirted into Harry’s mouth before he could think to spit it out, and now, now the panic was overriding his thinking process.

“Harry Potter,” a roughened voice said. Harry twisted his head slightly, trying to listen harder and fight the urge to scream, or be sick all over the floor. He needed to calm down, and take control of himself. He still had the cloth bag covering his head though, and couldn’t see a thing.

“There are so many people who’ve been waiting to meet the great Harry Potter,” the voice continued. It was a smoker, Harry thought, by the rough hack behind some of the words. Harry tried to think of what else he could figure out from the man’s voice and the room, as he found it was making his panic subside enough to be rational. The darkness was helping, and he kept tricking himself that this was just a bad dream, and he was still in his cupboard.

“I think we should play a little game, first,” the man suddenly said, as the bag was pulled off Harry’s head.

“Are you afraid to die?”

Harry winced at the suddenness of light, unable to see anything beyond the shadow of the man in front of him. Even then, he felt an odd compulsion bubbling up inside of him, making him desperately want to answer that no, no he wasn’t.

“No,” Harry answered, blinking rapidly to clear his vision. The man in front of him looked familiar, almost like Snape.

“Wrong answer, John.”

Harry’s mouth dropped open as the stars in his eyes finally faded, and yes, that was Snape standing there, and they were in his office in the dungeons. Snape. Not a Death Eater, not Voldemort, not a Malfoy.

An overwhelming bubble of relief nearly exploded inside him, fuelled on by a strong, white anger.

“ARE YOU CRAZY!” Harry shouted. “You utter bastard! I thought that…that I’d been kidnapped!”

Snape hadn’t released Harry’s arms from the binding spell, which was probably because Harry wouldn’t stop himself from hitting Snape. Instead, Snape leaned against his desk, merely watching Harry.

“You can’t just kidnap people!” Harry yelled further. “I thought I was going to die!”

“But you weren’t afraid,” Snape interjected, stopping Harry’s rant cold. “You’ve been given veritaserum, so you cannot lie. And yet, even though you thought you’d been kidnapped, you said you were not afraid to die.”

“No,” Harry huffed, panting from his anger, pent up adrenaline, and relief. “I’m not.”

He wasn’t afraid, hadn’t been when he lived at the Dursleys, and wasn’t now. Dying simply meant being with his family again. He didn’t want to hurry things along, now that he’d made friends and had a school he actually enjoyed attending, but he still wasn’t afraid. But it was not something he was ever going to tell Snape.

“Interesting. Do you think I am a Death Eater?”

Harry was astonished at the blunt question. The potion he’d taken was pushing him to answer, but Harry forced himself to fully think about the question. _I am_ , Snape had said. Present tense. Harry was fairly certain that Snape had been one, giving his predilection for kidnapping people and terrorizing them, but he didn’t think Snape was any longer.

“No,” Harry answered, gritting his teeth as he struggled against the magical arm restraints. “Not any more.”

“Then I believe it is time for a discussion,” Snape crisply said, holding up a single sheet of paper that Harry recognized. His letter, which he’d included in the Christmas apology package.

Snape turned and walked down the hallway to his flat, releasing Harry’s restraints as he did so. Harry still wanted to punch the man, but now that the adrenaline was receding, he just felt cold and irritated. Still, as Harry walked to the door behind the desk, he pushed several scrolls and books off of Snape’s desk in a fit of pettiness.

…

Coffee awaited him in Snape’s flat, and there was an extra knitted blanket on the couch where Harry had sat the last time he’d been in there. Snape was sitting in an armchair, and behind him, on the corkboard above his desk, were Harry’s notes. The map was still there, the great circle lines darker than before, and Harry could see the chart he and Ron and Hermione had made about the potion ingredients.

“In your letter,” Snape began, watching Harry slump down onto the couch. “You stated that you wish to continue the lessons.”

“Yes,” Harry immediately answered, still very much feeling the insistent push of the veritaserum. “Why did you pretend to abduct me?”

Snape had a funny little smirk on his face.

“To prove that you were serious. You wouldn’t be worth teaching if you hadn’t fought back.”

“Is that why you said my answer was wrong?” Harry asked, holding onto the cup of coffee and letting the warmth seep into his hands. Now that he knew he was safe, he just wanted to sleep. “That I should be afraid to die?”

“If you aren’t afraid,” Snape carefully said, “as you had proven by deliberately ignoring the hazards and going to Hogsmeade, how would I possibly know that my efforts would not be going to waste?”

Harry thought about that for a moment, but he didn’t have an answer for it. The potion seemed to realise that as well, as Harry didn’t feel compelled to speak.

“This is the starting point, Potter. We will begin training again, but you will not lie to me, you will not purposefully risk your life, and you will listen when I tell you something.”

Snape leaned forward in his chair, snatching a biscuit from the plate next to the coffee mugs.

“You’ll teach me again?” Harry asked, trying not to sound like a hopeful eight year old talking to Santa.

Snape looked him over, and glanced toward the corkboard on the wall over the desk.

“Your research has brought up an angle I had not yet considered. If it is correct, there is the possibility to end this war before it properly begins.”

Harry swallowed tightly, and nodded.

“All right. I promise.”

Snape considered that, before holding out his hand and waiting as a piece of parchment floated over.

“As much as I would like to trust your word,” Snape said, the sarcasm rolling off his tongue, “I require written proof.”

“I thought I was under veritaserum,” Harry said, trying to find that inner compulsion to tell the truth about everything. It was still there, but much less powerful than before.

“The effects do not last long,” Snape explained, not looking pleased about that particular quirk of the potion.

Harry held the piece of paper, reading it over carefully. In exchange for Snape resuming their defence lessons, Harry’s signature on the page would promise that he would not run off on foolish adventures, that he’d complete any and all assignments set per the lessons, that he would help with the research, and that he would request permission for any and all errands that might possibly end in death or maiming.

Snape’s duty list was much smaller, and said that he would do his best to keep Harry alive. There was a clause, in small print, that also said that Snape would provide interference between Harry and the Dursleys, which Harry thought was more for Snape’s own personal entertainment than Harry’s safety.

“This pretty much makes you my guardian,” Harry muttered, with a bit of an amused huff. He signed the document anyway, knowing that the lessons were what he wanted most, and that strangely, he trusted Snape to keep him safe.

Snape took the paper from Harry, signing it as well.

“You are forbidden from going to Hogsmeade,” Snape deadpanned.

“Hah, hah,” Harry said, stretching out his feet. “Can I stay down here for the night? For some reason, I don’t really want to walk through dark corridors at the moment.”

He tried, and utterly failed, to make Snape feel guilty for the staged kidnapping.

“I suppose one of the house elves can fetch your things and inform your friends,” Snape said, his expression bored as he took the mugs into the kitchen area. After calling forth a house elf, one that sounded suspiciously like one of the fake assailants from earlier, Snape moved to his desk to pick up some of Harry’s notes.

“It was my mother, wasn’t it?” Harry asked, his voice very soft as he watched from the couch. “She turned you against him?”

Harry had had a lot of time to puzzle it out, and really, it hadn’t been that difficult. From Snape’s reaction over finding out what Harry’s last memory of his mother was, to his fear that Harry would have remembered the man being there, to knowing (and mutually hating) his Aunt Petunia, it seemed to click together. Even some of Snape’s anger was explainable, as his mother had married the man who’d tormented Snape when they were younger. And Harry happened to look just like that man, so he could see how Snape could cultivate an instant distaste. Maybe.

Harry had thought about what he’d do if he saw someone that looked like Dudley or Malfoy, or was just named Dudley, and had to admit that he’d probably have an instant foul taste in his mouth as well.

Snape stood still, the paper in his hand as he stared ahead at the corkboard.

“She did not turn me away from the Dark Lord,” Snape said, his voice gravelly. It was the rough tone he normally had when he did not want to speak of something. “Her death did.”

He took a few seconds to compose himself, but Harry wasn’t going to ask further. Snape was the kind of man who held his cards tightly, and he’d promised during the summer to tell Harry the story someday. He didn’t want to wait, but Harry would.

“So I was right about the lethifold, too? Voldemort’s going to use it, with the graphorn and the runespoor?” Harry asked, changing the subject.

“Yes,” Snape said, twirling to face Harry. It didn’t quite have the same imposing effect, as he wasn’t wearing his teaching robes. “In a potion, of indeterminate legality.”

“To bring himself back to life,” Harry miserably said. He’d kicked off his shoes, and turned to stretch out on the couch.

“Very good,” Snape said, his voice almost snake-like and a twisted grin on his lips. He did not look warm and friendly, like Professor Lupin, and Harry was a bit wary of the slightly manic look in Snape’s eyes.

“Have you figured out the usefulness of great circles?” Snape suddenly asked.

“Uh, they’re great for travelling faster and with less…” Harry started.

“Geographically,” Snape interrupted.

Harry stopped talking and glanced at the map on the wall again, looking at the sweeping arch between England and Albania.

“You can tell where someone is going to land. Along the line,” Harry said, the realisation coming to him.

“With a reasonable accuracy rate,” Snape said, pleased that Harry had figured out the answer so fast.

“Does Dumbledore know about all this as well?” Harry asked, yawning into the blanket.

“I am certain that the Headmaster is doing his own research yes,” Snape dismissed.

Harry got the message. Once again, like in the summer, Snape was picking and choosing what information he was sharing with Professor Dumbledore. Harry didn’t know why, as Dumbledore to him had always seemed like a benevolent grandfatherly sort, but Snape must have had some sort of legitimate reason behind his choice. And the signed piece of parchment on the coffee table, which Harry plonked his glasses down atop of as he burrowed in the blanket and Snape muttered further to himself, promised that Harry wouldn’t question it.


	7. Chapter 7

 

Harry woke up with a start, feeling a weight heavier than the blanket on him before hearing a loud crash of noise. As he blearily sat up, Harry saw that three pairs of shoes, two books, various cushions, a stack of pencils, wooden potion ingredient bowls, and a ball had been stacked on top of him.

“Not very observant while you sleep,” said Snape. He was sitting at the kitchen table, reading the newspaper and drinking coffee, looking entirely unperturbed by the mess Harry’s movement had caused. It took Harry another two seconds to remember that it was the Christmas holiday, and there was no urgent need to move. His stomach grumbled though, so Harry made the effort.

“Seems I’m a bit tired after an attempted kidnapping,” Harry grumbled, stretching. He stepped over the mess, not bothering to pick a single thing up, and zeroed in on the coffee machine on the kitchen counter. During the summer, Snape had always brewed enough in the morning for six or seven cups, and Harry had begun drinking one with breakfast.

“You didn’t leave the castle,” Snape said, still reading the paper. “It wasn’t a kidnapping.”

“Definitely felt like one,” Harry grumpily answered. He dumped sugar into his coffee and brought it to the table, where he saw that Snape had a basket of rolls and some jam.

“Perception, John, is always key,” said Snape, lowering the paper and staring at Harry. His tone was serious, and Harry filed it away in his brain as Something to Remember, as it sounded like an important piece of advice.

“Any lessons for the rest of this holiday?” Harry asked, trying, and failing, to spread jam on a roll without making much of a mess.

“No,” Snape answered. “Has the Headmaster mentioned anything of the spell that was used to protect your life?”

“No,” Harry quietly said. “He just said that my mother’s love saved me.”

Harry would have missed the ugly curl of Snape’s upper lip, had he not looked up at Snape’s frustrated growl.

“Blood magic, Potter. An ancient form of magic that is no longer practiced, and was seemingly called upon by the willpower of your mother. It is the very same reason that you are in theory protected at your Aunt’s home, as you are related, by blood, to Petunia.”

“Right,” Harry said, putting the jam knife down and wondering why Snape had such a strong opinion of his Aunt. “That was mentioned a bit, yeah.”

“A bit,” Snape scornfully repeated. “That is your task. Research the blood magic, and find out what, exactly, is protecting you from the Dark Lord.”

“Great,” Harry said. “We’re already in the library this whole break, working on a defence for Buckbeak.”

“Whinging will gain you no sympathy,” Snape said, rising from the table and taking his cup to the kitchen.

“But you know Malfoy’s faking it!” Harry objected.

“Of course he is,” Snape replied. “But there is nothing I can do about it, and I assure you, the Headmaster will provide Hagrid with some form of help during the hearing.”

“So I can tell Hermione that we don’t need to do any further research?” Harry asked, slightly hopeful. Not that he didn’t mind helping Hagrid; it was just that the research on old hippogriff cases was incredibly boring.

“If you wish to tell your friend Hagrid that you no longer want to help him, by all means, do so,” Snape said, washing the dishes in the sink.

Harry sunk into his seat a little, a heavy weight in his stomach as he felt a bit ashamed. Hagrid had been his first contact with the wizarding world after he’d lived with the Dursleys, and though he was a bit strange sometimes, he was a very caring man and Harry couldn’t imagine letting him down.

“No sir,” Harry said, picking up another roll for breakfast. “I’ll do it, and help Hagrid too.”

“Of course you will do the assigned research,” Snape said, picking up a stack of parchment from his desk and bringing it to the table to correct. “I have your word that you will behave, in order to continue the lessons.”

He held up his hand, and a small picture frame unearthed itself from the pile of papers on the desk, floating over to where they were sitting. Snape had framed the signed ‘contract’ that had restarted the lessons, and Harry blushed, though he couldn’t figure out why.

“Oh, and a late Christmas gift,” Snape said, tossing a small paper envelope at him. Harry opened it to find a long black leather cord in it, almost like a shoelace, with a bead on one end and a loop on the other.

“Thanks,” Harry said, running the cord through his fingers. “What is it?”

“Wrap it around your ankle and attach it. Three times should be sufficient. It has a tracking spell,” Snape said, starting to tick off and comment on an essay.

“Oh. Aren’t anklets more for girls?” Harry asked, trying not to sound ungrateful.

“And criminals, yes,” Snape said, and Harry swore the man was trying not to smirk. “Your tattoo idea, while a very good solution, would be a permanent one and require permission from a guardian for the tattoo itself. This is not as inconspicuous, but I trust you will keep it on at all times, hidden under a sock if you feel so strongly about the style.”

“I’ll wear it,” Harry said, twisting down to put it on. “It’ll be spring soon, and you know how Voldemort likes to wait until I’m almost done classes before he does anything.”

Snape paused, his quill over the bottom half of the essay for a moment, before he continued writing.

“Get out, Potter. Go to the library and irritate someone else.”

Harry smirked the entire way upstairs.

…

The Forbidden Forest, now that Harry had been into it twice (and nearly died, twice), still held a dark, malicious feeling to it. Harry gripped the broomstick tightly as he followed Snape, who was walking with a confident step. Harry supposed that if Snape often went to the forest for potion ingredients or such, that he should be confident.

The shadows and peat scent in the forest started to lighten as they walked though, and Snape’s final turn off the path took them to a rather large clearing. Harry could hear animals around, likely inspecting and watching them, but couldn’t see any, and he winced as he looked up into the bright, cold sky.

“Stay within the tree clearance,” Snape said, standing to the side of the path and crossing his arms.

Harry glanced up at the ring of tree branches surrounding the clearing, and then back down at the school broom in his hand.

“The broom’s cursed, isn’t it,” Harry said, his eyes raking over the scuffed handle and bent twigs at the bottom.

“How would you know?” Snape asked, partially sarcastic, and partially serious.

“You won’t let me fly high enough to cause serious damage if I fell,” Harry pointed out. 

“Get on the damn broom,” Snape huffed, though he didn’t sound quite angry. “And that is a sufficient height to cause damage.”

But Harry was off, flying as smoothly as he could on the rickety school broom. He did a few low laps around the clearing, getting a feel for the broom, and was about to turn back to Snape when an orange dodge ball hit him.

Harry opened his mouth to protest the attack, but snapped it shut and twisted out of the way of the next ball.

“What are you doing?!” Harry yelled, dipping and turning as well as he could with the broom as Snape sent a barrage of dodge balls his way.

“Fighting in the air is not the same as on the ground,” Snape calmly said, his eyes completely focused on Harry’s moves as he fired.

“He’s not going to launch things at me!” Harry yelped, barely catching a tree branch with his foot as he flew by Snape.

“Get out your wand and defend yourself!” Snape barked, pausing long enough for Harry to fumble and pull his wand out. He spent a few minutes dodging the balls and trying to shoot them down, but still ended up getting hit more often than not.

Snape kept up the dodge balls, but after Harry’s aim started to improve, Snape had some switch to attacking Harry from behind the broomstick.

“You cheater!” Harry yelled, firing blindly over his shoulder and nearly setting a tree on fire.

“Think!” Snape snapped back, watching him. Harry was getting consistently pelted now, and in a frustrated huff, yelled out ‘ _protego’_. He’d meant to say pause, as if they were playing a Nintendo game and he was overwhelmed by the course, but to his surprise, the shielding spell defended him.

“Good,” Snape said, still volleying the orange hard foam balls at Harry, from all sides. “Keep it up.”

Harry did, though at first he could only spare enough attention from the shield to fly in a set circle, and barely avoid the trees. He still kept the balls out though, and started thinking of himself as flying in a protected bubble. It worked, as the visual was much stronger than just the casting word in his mind, and Harry was then able to devote more attention to better flying.

“Now hit the target,” Snape ordered, pointing with his hand toward a crude target in between two trees. He was no longer conjuring dodge balls, but instead had the already conjured pack flying tightly around Harry, as if they were a gang of air-born wizards.

Harry flew a few more loops of the clearing, concentrating on both the shield and the target. He had no doubt that as soon as he fired a spell at the target, his shield would drop and he’d get attacked. Harry wasn’t sure that he could fly, cast, and keep up the shield at the same time, but he could see why Snape was testing him on it. He couldn’t personally imagine Voldemort flying a broom and attacking Harry, but if Voldemort had the same group of Death Eaters that he had in the first war, it was possible that they would.

Harry made one more loop around the clearing, before raising his wand and preparing to cast. He could feel the shield flickering around him, but he focused on the target and tried to imagine his spell passing through his shield, not breaking it. The power flowed out through his hand, and Harry saw it smash slightly off centre on the target, and had just enough time to smile in triumph as his toe snagged a branch of the tree nearest him, and his concentration shattered. Orange dodge balls pummelled him as he fell, and Harry hit the ground with a thump.

“Ow,” Harry grumbled, blinking at the shadow standing over him. He must have blanked out for a few seconds, as Snape had not been standing right beside him on his way down from the tree.

“When the choice is between dropping the shield or getting a concussion, drop the shield,” Snape said, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he stared down at Harry.

“Noted,” Harry said, nodding slightly. That turned out to be a bad idea. “I think I might sick up.”

….

“Stay awake,” Snape ordered, walking down the hallway toward his office, and leaving his door open.

Harry was propped up on Snape’s armchair (because he couldn’t lay down on it), with a blanket around him, a glass of water in his hands, an empty potion bottle in front of him, and a slowly receding headache. Snape had refused to let Harry go back to the dorm, as his concussion meant someone would have to check on him every two hours, and Snape didn’t trust Harry’s friends to do it. He also didn’t want to bother explaining things to Madam Pomfrey, so Harry had been brought to the dungeons once again.

“Your little friends are either thoughtful, or have a well-hidden malicious streak,” Snape said, bringing a small bag into the room as he returned. It held Harry’s pyjamas, his notebook, and the first Weasley jumper he ever received, which was too small for him now. Harry used it as a security blanket of sorts, as the yarn was very warm and smelled of the Burrow. Snape seemed to have figured out what its was.

“It’s warm,” Harry deflected, immediately putting his hands inside the jumper.

Snape surprisingly said nothing, and sat down on the chesterfield beside Harry.

“I’ve a question,” Harry said, keeping his hands in the jumper but looking up at Snape. “Why were they called Death Eaters? That’s a funny name, isn’t it?”

Snape gave him a look that Harry was sure expressed how mad he thought Harry was.

“One cannot be afraid of anything if one regularly eats death,” Snape cryptically answered, as if he’d been given that very answer long ago.

“But that doesn’t make sense,” Harry argued. “How do you eat death? You can’t get fat on ghosts, at least, but you can still be afraid of loads of things. Even Voldemort’s afraid of Dumbledore.”

Snape blinked at Harry, and he had a blank look on his face.

“It’s a metaphor, Potter,” Snape finally said. “And the name is used to instil fear in the minds of others, and to empower the Death Eaters themselves.”

“Right,” Harry said, very carefully nodding so as not to worsen his headache. “Fear in a name only increases fear of the thing itself.”

“Precisely,” Snape agreed. He was looking through a book on magic rituals, which had a few rather gruesome looking stains on the spine.

“He could have called them the Ghosts of the Night,” Harry mused, gently feeling the side of his head to test where he’d bumped it on the ground. There was a bit of a raised welt, and it was rather tender.

“The Ghosts of the Night?” Snape asked, disdain in his voice. “Keep up with your studies, Potter. You do not have the imagination to be a super-villain.”

“Hah,” Harry grumbled.  “Aunt Petunia hates you, doesn’t she?”

Harry closed his eyes against the spots dancing across his vision, and wished that Snape could have given him a stronger pain potion.

“Most certainly,” Snape immediately answered, not even slightly disturbed at the thought or the sudden topic change.

“Must have been from when you were kids,” Harry continued, watching for Snape’s reaction. “I went to live with her when she was twenty-three, and I know she never had anyone from our world around the house.”

“Is this a new parlour trick?’ Snape asked, marking the current page he was on with a scrap of parchment. “Showing off your spectacular bounds of logic after two years of uninspiring participation in potions lessons?”

“You don’t have to be so mean,” Harry said, scowling. “You told me to figure out the blood magic, and I was wondering why she agreed to it, if she hated everyone from our world.”

Harry snatched his notebook up from the coffee table, taking comfort in his research notes as he glared at Snape.

“And?” Snape asked, tapping his finger over the paragraph he was reading.

“And nothing. There’s lots of information about my parents dying, but no one says what happened after.”

Snape looked up at him this time, and Harry strongly wished he wouldn’t as his eyes were a bit damp.

“Petunia Evans grew up in the same town that I did: Cokeworth,” Snape said, pointing toward the picture of the house on the wall. “Forty-two houses away from mine. She was a domineering elitist with a disdain for the working town reality that she lived in, and harboured every dream to escape. She left at the age of eighteen, not wanting anything to do with her sister, parents, or any reminder of where she came from. I imagine that this is how she ended up in such a boring Muggle suburb, and the sight of her strange nephew on her doorstep one morning likely hardened her hatred of everything related to our world.”

Harry’s mouth opened slightly, his face slack with surprise at the amount of information Snape had willingly given.

“I was not there, that night, but I suspect that Petunia didn’t as much agree to the blood magic protection, but that it was foisted upon her.”

Harry swallowed hard, and concussion be damned, felt like curling up and going to sleep.

“I was, you mean,” said Harry.

“Yes, well,” said Snape, picking up another book from the stack on the coffee table. “Use that as motivation. The quicker we defeat Voldemort, the faster you can leave their house.”

“But I don't even know how that works. Dumbledore told me that it's because we share the same blood, that I'm protected. It can't be that simple, can it?”

Snape sighed.

“It is the blood, and also because she took you in. She is your guardian, Potter. She fills the same role your mother did.”

“No, she bloody doesn't!” Harry snapped, standing up suddenly and feeling dizzy as a result. “She never has!”

He stormed off toward the bathroom, which was only a few steps away, and glanced off the doorframe as he swayed unsteadily.

“Potter!”

Harry could tell by the pause in Snape's yell that his sudden tantrum had caught Snape off guard. He'd not snapped at Dumbledore the first year, when Harry had been told that it was his Aunt who kept him safe, but after he had seen other families of his friends, and faced danger at the school on multiple occasions at the school, Harry didn't buy the excuse any more.

Aunt Petunia may have kept him safe when he was younger, but Harry got into enough trouble on his own, and he no longer wanted to be in any sort of debt to her for protection or otherwise. Especially not how she had treated him as a child, as if he were some sort of Oliver Twist.

He leaned forward against the sink, his fingers pressing into his temple to push away the light-headedness he felt. After doing the research on blood magic, and how strong his mother's love had to have been in order for Harry to gain the protection, he had the sick feeling that his Aunt's hatred was wasting away at the spell.

He swallowed away a dry heave as he remembered the past summer, when Snape, a man who didn’t even like him that much, had moved him into the office room on a cot after hearing just once that Harry didn’t like sleeping in wide open spaces. Aunt Petunia had kept him in the cupboard for years, ignoring Harry’s yells as a little boy, when he’d had nightmares about his parents’ death and the bright green light.

Harry barely heard the doorknob turning beside him as he fought to clear the thoughts out of his head. Nothing had changed, since he'd been a little boy. His Aunt had always hated him, and the blood protection spell had worked in first year against Voldemort, so Harry told himself to quit being maudlin.

“John.”

Snape's voice sounded quite distanced, as the man was standing right beside him. Snape's hands were cool, his fingers thin and very strong as he drew Harry out of the washroom. The powerful grip on his shoulders kept Harry upright, though his feet didn't seem to like the movement and his body felt like it should be lying down.

“Shall I assume that the concussion is behind your little fit?” Snape asked, his tone dry. They moved past the coffee table, and toward the opening in the wall near Snape's desk.

Harry opened his mouth to argue, but then shook his head, making himself dizzier.

“Fine, yeah. That's the problem,” Harry grumbled, letting himself be pushed onto a rather large and comfortable bed. His head was pulsing, and Harry just wanted to sleep it off though he knew Snape would be checking on him every two hours to make sure he was okay.

“In order for the spell to work,” Snape repeated, his voice calm as he pulled Harry's glasses off, “Petunia had to fill the role of your mother.”

Harry rolled from his side onto his stomach, keeping his eyes closed so the tears couldn't gather that quickly at the side of his eyes. Aunt Petunia would never replace his mother. Harry would never let her.

“Listen very carefully to what I say,” Snape told him, sitting at the edge of the bed. Harry found it a bit odd that he was lying on Snape's own bed (though at least he was on top of the duvet), and Snape was sitting by his feet.

“In order for the spell to work, a mother figure must be present, in blood relation, to you. Petunia Dursley will **never** come close to comparing with your mother, however, for your protection, the association is a successful one.”

“Change the spell,” Harry said, his voice almost lost in the duvet. He didn't move.

“And whom would you prefer sacrifice themselves for you this time?” Snape asked. It was a mixture of sarcasm and seriousness, and Harry blindly lifted his leg to see if he was within range of kicking Snape.

“I never wanted them to die for me,” Harry said, pinching his eyes shut, even though one tear managed to escape. “I don’t want anyone else to, either. You’re training me, and that will be enough.”

He heard nothing from Snape's end of the bed, but felt a blanket draped over him and tucked securely around him. Harry felt an odd sense of comfort, and amused chagrin as he realized that his legs were now pinned down.

“Your faith in me is both astounding and a little concerning,” Snape mused, sitting back down the bed. Harry could hear that Snape was scribbling in a notebook, and belatedly realised that his headache had almost vanished.

“You’re scary as hell,” Harry slowly said, fighting sleep. “Who wouldn’t be afraid of you?”

“The Dark Lord isn’t,” Snape said, and his tone was slightly more serious. “And he isn’t afraid of you either.”

“Why would he be?” Harry asked, his eyes closed and his face pressed into the duvet. He wasn’t up high enough on the bed to reach a pillow, but was perfectly comfortably without. “I’m thirteen years old. I’m not exactly an even match.”

“A thirteen year old boy who has already defeated him once,” Snape responded, placing emphasis on the last words of the sentence.

“Doesn’t matter,” Harry muttered, pulling the blanket around himself up higher, as he was cold. “He’d have to be really stupid, like Dudley, to try the same thing again.”

Harry almost fell asleep in the silence, as Snape pondered quietly, and flinched when Snape stood up quickly.

“You’d be surprised.”

Harry was going to question that, but his head was the comfortable sort of warm now and sleep took him before he could ask.

….

 

The private brewing room, which was behind two locked doors and a false shelf in a cupboard, was in the dungeons and a ten-minute walk from Snape’s flat. While he often brewed in his kitchen at home, Snape preferred to keep his school flat free from potions, mostly because there was _always_ something on the go at Hogwarts and brewing bases to the students’ class potions took up a lot of space.

Still, Snape was rather fond of the room. It was warm and had a long table bench set up along one wall as well straight down the middle. Cauldrons of various sizes and makes were stacked according to dimension on a rack bolted to the wall, a shelf beside it had ladles, scoops, and spatulas in every size imaginable, a small desk sat in one corner of the room, with several potion recipe texts on it, and the stone floor had cushioning charms on it for prolonged periods of brewing. Snape also had an impressive amount of sharp knives on the shelf above the ladles, to slice, chop, dice, mince, smash, or cube his ingredients easily.

Snape also enjoyed the room because only a handful of people at the school knew it actually existed.

“Good evening, Severus,” Dumbledore greeted, shutting the door behind him. Dumbledore didn’t often visit Snape while he brewed, but Snape didn’t actually mind. He had nothing to hide in the room, and he sometimes found conversation to be stimulating enough that it unblocked whatever problem he was currently working on.

“Headmaster,” Snape answered, carefully weighing powdered Graphorn skin.

“Have you had a chance to look at Harry’s new Firebolt?” Dumbledore asked, moving over to the desk to take a seat.

“I assume it is naturally the best and most expensive model,” Snape answered, his eyes locked on the potion he was currently brewing as he added the powder. “There is no need for me to look.”

“Severus,” Dumbledore tutted, though he didn’t sound angry. “He received it as a gift, anonymously–”

“Yes, yes,” Snape said, standing back up after all the powder had gone in. “I have inspected it for wayward potion infusion, but have found nothing.”

“Ah,” Dumbledore said, with a smile. “And how are the lessons going?”

“Save for a minor disruption, they are progressing at a smoother rate than initially anticipated,” Snape answered, chopping up beetroot in efficient and even slices, with speed and accuracy that used to make his father lament Snape’s potential as a top-rate chef.

“Mr Potter has proven himself quite unlike his father?” Dumbledore asked, his voice carrying amusement.

“That has always been an excuse,” Snape snapped, holding up the knife and pointing it at the Headmaster. “Which you are well aware of.”

Dumbledore sighed, leaning forward to look at the books Snape had open on the desk. Most were turned to pages about regenerative draughts, but one had a particularly gruesome chapter up about phantom limbs and amputations.

“You have not told Harry of the promise you made to me,” Dumbledore stated, and it was not a question. Snape answered it anyway.

“And that I begged your forgiveness? No,” Snape answered, his voice cold. “I have not told the boy that I sent his mother–his parents–to their deaths. I have not told him that the only way to redeem myself, and to escape your wrath, was to promise my life to keeping him safe.”

There was silence in the room for a moment, as Snape double checked the recipe and added six vanilla seeds, concentrating carefully to ensure he only added six.

“It would not make for proper tea conversation,” Snape finally said, irritated by the silence. Dumbledore did not laugh, however, but instead gazed thoughtfully over at Snape. Snape could see the look out of the corner of his eye, and imagined it (with exasperation) as one a father might use when his son was tinkering successfully with something.

“Do you not think Harry will find out?” Dumbledore asked, his voice gentle but not placating.

“He is not stupid,” Snape immediately responded, feeling oddly defensive. He’d been rather impressed at the apology effort that Potter had presented (as much as it had been Granger’s idea), and had not been lying when he’d told Potter that his research concluded things Snape hadn’t yet found. And while Potter was rather intelligent, and listened well during the lessons, Snape knew exactly how dangerous it was to let his guard down in the castle, so he’d never made any outward sign of his acceptance of Potter.

“I would prefer, however, that such revelations are not made until long after the Dark Lord has been defeated.”

“Hmm,” Dumbledore hummed, standing up from the desk. He picked up a jar of Salamander ash from the table to the left of Snape, and brought it over. “Are you afraid that he’ll blame you? There is no way you could have known who Voldemort would target.”

Snape put his knife down on the chopping board, clenching his fingers around the warm wooden handle, and gave Dumbledore a look that would have curdled milk.

“Potter wants to murder Sirius Black for betraying his parents and breaking their fidelius to the Dark Lord. My crime is not so dissimilar.”

“But you’ve been training him. I have faith that Harry will see that as you making up for such mistakes in the past,” Dumbledore insisted, watching the silvery blue potion come to a rolling boil.

“This is true,” Snape said, grinding two grams of coral starfish into a pestle. “He seems to have forgiven you for leaving him unwanted on his relatives’ doorstep.”

Dumbledore visibly flinched, and Snape sighed, feeling remorseful.

“My apolo–”

“No, Severus,” Dumbledore said, holding up his hand. “You are entirely correct. I can only be thankful that he has.”

Snape nodded, not desiring an argument over Potter’s childhood at the moment. What was done had been done, and it seemed to have shaped Potter into a non-Malfoy type child, which was acceptable to Snape’s standards.

“Speaking of his deplorable relatives, who actually has legal guardianship of Potter?”

Snape added the starfish to the beetroot mix, and prepared to add it to the rest of the solution.

“The Dursleys by proxy,” Dumbledore answered, his expression thoughtful. “Sirius Black is his official godfather, but of course, the paperwork was never completed while he was in Azkaban.”

Snape paused in the brewing process, muttering a stasis spell over the cauldron. He cradled his forehead in his hand, rubbing his temple.

“Are you saying that Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, is without a legal guardian in either the Muggle or magical world?”

“I–”

“And that the one person legally able to claim such guardianship, has not only escaped from Azkaban, but been spotted around and IN the castle?”

Dumbledore looked to be fighting a smile, which Snape had absolutely no appreciation for.

“Twelve years is a long time to let something slip by as a slight of mind,” Dumbledore excused. “I highly doubt, thankfully, that even the Ministry is inefficient enough to allow an escaped prisoner to claim guardianship.”

“No,” Snape said, sighing. “But he can complete the paperwork, which in addition to being in charge of Potter, also grants him complete access to Potter’s vault. Which I assume, based on my wonderful memories of James Potter, is not exactly empty.”

“I don’t believe the Blacks’ vaults are empty either,” Dumbledore mused.

“Not the point,” Snape grumbled.

“In any event, the goblins will not allow Sirius Black to access Harry’s vault.”

“Really?” Snape asked, a smirk forming on his face. “Lucius Malfoy has been to Azkaban twice, and I assure you, he knew of every knut, sickle, and galleon moving within his vault, under his command.”

“Yes, well,” Dumbledore said, though he looked like he was trying not to smile as well. “Somehow I don’t believe Sirius Black would have greased the same wheels as Lucius Malfoy, as I think the saying goes.”

“No,” Snape agreed, pulling a sack of beetle eyes off the shelf to his left. “But it remains that Sirius Black was named by the Potters as the boy’s godfather, and the goblins will know that.”

“Hindsight is twenty-twenty,” Dumbledore pondered, making Snape wonder if he’d received a daily calendar of proverbs and phrases for Christmas. “Though you are correct that a solution is required immediately. Have you any ideas?”

Snape sat down on his stool with a huff, his spindly legs folding up in front of him as his feet perched on the bottom rung of the stool.

“That ex-house elf of the Malfoys seems to be particularly fond of him,” Snape mused.

“Severus,” Dumbledore warmly said. “Perhaps Lupin? He was a great friend of James and Lily after all…”

“And a werewolf,” Snape snapped. “Unacceptable.”

“You’re correct,” Dumbledore said, ignoring the barb in Snape’s tone. “The Ministry would never allow it. I am too old, alas, and busy with this upcoming war.”

He trailed off, thinking to himself, and Snape sat in silence at the worktable. There was a periodic table of elements on the wall across from Snape, which he glanced over as he resisted telling Dumbledore that the Headmaster was not the only one to anticipate another battle.

“I suppose another member of the Order, like the Weasleys or yourself, would be the best candidate.”

It was meant to get a rise out of Snape, to incite him into a tantrum of yelling and cursing old ghosts of the past. But Snape had been training Potter since the summer, and like then, resigned to the fact that Lily’s child was a target, and one Snape gave his word to protect.

“I would not object, although the logistics of hiding the information would be somewhat of a nightmare,” Snape calmly replied, picking up his knife again to prepare the next ingredient. It wasn’t often he could surprise the Headmaster, and Snape rather enjoyed the slightly stunned silence.

“Might I suggest that you actually _ask_ Potter what he would prefer. Your last housing placement for the boy did not turn out particularly pleasant for him.”

“Ah, no, it did not. But you may find that it is very difficult to resist doing what you think is best for someone,” Dumbledore said, and he had the grace to look abashed.

“Is it?” Snape asked, working quickly at the chopping board. “For all students, or just for him?”

Snape did not mention his wayward youth, and how easy it had been for him to turn against everything he’d planned for himself when he and Lily were children in the summers. All it had taken was one bitter spring night, and the knowledge that his life and safety was not even worth the _suspensions_ of two pranking students, never mind expulsions.

Once again, as Snape expected, Dumbledore did not apologise.

“I will ask Harry what he wishes,” Dumbledore said instead, as if he knew that the time had long past to make up for his poor decision regarding Black and Potter’s prank.

Snape nodded, and waited until the Headmaster had just reached the door.

“He can cast a fully corporal patronus,” Snape offhandedly said, feigning interest only in his potion, but there was no mistaking the smugness in his voice. He expected surprise from Dumbledore, and perhaps a teasing remark about Snape’s potential as an effective professor, and kept his smile hidden in the silence.

“Well done, Severus,” Dumbledore said, and for a moment Snape wondered why Dumbledore would sound proud. “Once again, I have severely underestimated you.”

“You doubted my ability to teach him?” Snape coolly asked.

“No,” Dumbledore replied, and Snape could hear the smile in his voice. “I think perhaps I may have miss-judged both your stubbornness.”

…

When the next Hogsmeade weekend arrived, Harry didn’t consider for a second going into the village. He left his order with Ron instead, and enjoyed a slow breakfast in the Great Hall. It had snowed earlier in the morning, and Harry was in absolutely no rush to leave the warm castle. Snape had scheduled training just before lunch, but Harry had a good three hours to kill before then.

“Harry,” Lupin said, walking down the bench aisles in the middle of the Hall. “Have a few minutes for tea?”

Lupin had a smile on his face, though he looked tired and a bit rough around the edges.

“Sure,” Harry shrugged, putting away the notebook he’d been doodling in and slipping off the bench.

Lupin’s office was filled with just as many interesting creatures as it had been in the fall, though Harry was now well practiced at ignoring them.

“I wanted to ask if you’re interested in learning how to cast a patronus,” Lupin said, bringing a battered tea set out of his office as Harry plunked down into a chair. “To fend off those pesky Dementors.”

“Oh,” Harry started, completely at a loss for what to say. His lessons with Snape were strictly confidential, and Harry was fairly certain he was supposed to hide his talent. “I’ve been a bit too busy to think about it, to be honest.”

“Ah,” Lupin said, pouring the tea. He had a smile on his face though, and it somehow smoothed out the harshest of the scars on his face. “Things aren’t well in the tower?”

“Not really,” Harry said, stirring sugar into his tea. The tower, Lupin had said, with familiarity. Harry wondered if Professor Lupin had also been a Gryffindor. “Ron’s rat has gone missing, and it looks like Hermione’s cat ate it. Buckbeak, Hagrid’s hippogriff, is going to be executed because of stupid Malfoy, and Ron and Hermione aren’t speaking to each other at all.”

“Anything else?” Lupin asked, his eyebrow raised.

“Sirius Black,” Harry answered, his tone lacking any of the amusement that Lupin’s had held.  It had been absolutely terrifying the week before to wake up to Ron’s yells, and see the slashes in the bed curtains from the knife Sirius Black had held. What had worried Harry most was not so much how Black had gotten in, but how he’d managed to slip _out_ with all the yelling, panic, and lights flickering on.

“How far we fall,” Lupin murmured, looking down to his clenched hands for a moment.

“You knew him, didn’t you?” Harry carefully asked, trying to keep any sort of accusation out of his voice. The school was relatively small, always had been, and Harry had known since Christmas that Snape, Lupin, his father, and Sirius Black had all known each other rather well.

“We were inseparable as schoolmates,” Lupin answered, eager to tell the story, as Harry thought he would be.  “Your father, myself, Sirius Black, and a fourth boy, Peter. Called ourselves the Marauders, and got up to as much trouble as I imagine Ron, Hermione, and yourself get into.”

Harry’s ear twitched at the name of the group, and his thoughts immediately flew to the worn piece of parchment in his back pocket. The Marauder’s Map, it was even labelled, and had four creator’s names.

“What happened?” Harry hollowly asked, trying to fight the urge to flee the room and return to his dorm, so he could inspect the map in his pocket. It was his father’s, and Harry not only wanted to know which of the four names was his dad’s, but to inspect every inch of the map and see if he could find his father’s writing.

“People change, Harry. Greed, lust, and power – they change. Sirius came from a very old Pureblood family, and perhaps he could not resist his own upbringing in the end,” Lupin said, holding onto his mug, though the tea had long gone cold.

“You think he did it for power as well?” Harry asked, his mind racing as he fought to imprint everything Lupin said. He wasn’t as good as Snape at picking out the important pieces of information, not yet. “To be Voldemort’s right hand man?”

“We may never know,” Lupin answered. “He’s spent twelve years in Azkaban, and just one is enough to drive anyone mad. But if anyone deserves it, it’s him. He betrayed your father, and in that explosion, killed our other friend Peter Pettigrew.”

Harry shook his head, unable to imagine turning on his friends like that.

“He won’t get to you, Harry,” Lupin suddenly said, breaking Harry’s thoughts and sounding determined. “You’ve many people here to protect you.”

After the tea had settled, and Lupin had excused himself with the mention of not feeling his best, Harry walked back to his dorm in silence. He was still itching to read the map, and look for traces of his father, but something else was sticking out in his mind and it was bothering Harry that he couldn’t connect it. Peter Pettigrew, the fourth boy, had not come up in much of Harry’s research, but he was quite certain that he’d seen the name a few times before.

…

“Ah, Harry, I was hoping to find you here,” Dumbledore’s voice echoed in the little hallway by the prefects’ bath. All five boys froze, and the colour change ball they’d been kicking around skittered through their feet. It was early March, and though the grounds were somewhat dry, it was still mucky out and they’d chosen to play inside, against the rules.

“Hello, sir,” Harry said.

Dumbledore completely ignored the fact that Harry, Ron, Fred, George, and Seamus should have been outside.

“I need to quickly go over some paperwork with you, in my office, if you have a few minutes?”

The colour change ball rolled over to Fred, coming to rest against his foot. Five seconds after it had stopped moving, it belched out a foul colour spray mixture onto Fred’s shoes.

“Uh, yes, I think I can,” Harry said, giving his friends a shrug as Dumbledore smiled.

“Excellent, off we go then,” Dumbledore said, turning toward his office. “And Misters Weasley, the house elves are only able to get so many stains out of clothing, do be careful.”

Harry had a small grin on his face as he followed Dumbledore to the man’s office. If the house elves couldn’t get stains out of everything, he could only imagine Mrs Weasley’s reaction to some of the messes Fred and George made.

“Tea, Harry?” Dumbledore asked, settling down into his chair.

“No thanks, sir,” Harry answered, sitting in one of the guests’ spots.

“Nothing to worry about, Harry, there are just a few forms to go over that I have overlooked in the time that you have been here,” Dumbledore reassured, holding up a few pieces of parchment.

Harry was worried though, as he knew very well that his Aunt and Uncle wouldn’t bother filling out any forms for Harry’s school, regardless of whether he absolutely needed them or not.

“This is just a formality, of course, but it has been brought to my attention that your Aunt and Uncle don’t have legal guardianship over you.”

“They don’t?” Harry interrupted, a mixture of confusion and a tiny bit of hopefulness rising within.

“They do in a moral sense, I suppose,” Dumbledore said. “As they have agreed to care for you.”

Harry made a face at that, which Dumbledore didn’t comment on.

“However, we will need to assign someone as your legal guardian to ensure your accounts are properly taken care of, any permission forms may be granted, and for any medical emergencies that may arise.”

Harry personally thought that should have been done when he’d first arrived at Hogwarts, but he was far more focused on what else having a proper caretaker would mean to say anything about it.

“So, someone else will be my guardian?” Harry asked, trying to settle the excitement that was building in his stomach. It was too easy; there was no way he could leave the Dursleys just like that.

“Yes, for all legal matters, you will have a guardian from the magical world to handle your affairs.”

Dumbledore sounded like he was choosing his words very carefully, and Harry wondered if he wasn’t doing it so that Harry didn’t get the wrong idea.

“What if I don’t want it to be just a formality?” Harry asked, regretting the words as soon as they’d left his mouth. He’d learned as a child to never let the Dursleys know what he really wanted, as they’d make absolutely certain that he didn’t get it. And somehow, Harry knew that Dumbledore wouldn’t let him leave his relatives’ house that easily.

Dumbledore sighed a little, giving Harry a sympathetic look and pushing a dish of candies across the table. Harry hated the look, and wanted to smack the candies away, but he knew a tantrum would definitely not get him anything.

“You need to stay with the Dursleys, Harry. They are your only living blood relatives, and they are what keep you safe from Voldemort.”

Harry bit his lip so hard that he tasted blood, but he was able to reel back the smart response that was at the edge of his tongue.

“So,” Harry said, taking a calming breath, “I just have to pick someone who will be able to sign forms for me.”

“Yes,” Dumbledore nodded, studying Harry. Harry didn’t keep eye contact though, because he’d done that with Snape once or twice before and figured out that the man could almost read minds that way. Harry wasn’t certain if Dumbledore could, but he wouldn’t have been surprised if that were the case.

“Someone responsible and trustworthy, like perhaps the Weasleys, Professor Lupin, or even myself. Professor McGonagall would be delighted as well, I’m sure.”

“Fine,” Harry said, as politely as he could manage, standing up quickly and taking the papers from the desk. “I’ll think about it and bring them back.”

“Certainly. I do suggest that you complete the forms quickly, however. And I would like to see first who…”

“But you just said I’m an orphan,” Harry calmly said, stopping Dumbledore’s words. “So if I choose someone, and they sign the paperwork, that’s it, isn’t it?”

He tried to appear as naive and innocent as he could, though Harry’s mind was racing. Dumbledore wanted him to choose a guardian and wanted it to be someone proper, but as Harry didn’t officially have one, Dumbledore couldn’t do anything about whom Harry ended up choosing.

The silence in the room was suddenly filled by a warm laughter, and Harry looked at the Headmaster with a bit of surprise.

“I see now why the Hat took so long to decide your placement,” Dumbledore said, with a smile that only held amusement in it. Harry felt calmer, as he had been a bit nervous to go against the Headmaster’s wishes. “Somehow I think you have more Slytherin in your personality than what Voldemort gave you in that scar.”

Harry could feel his face heating up at the compliment, and thought it best not to comment.

“I’ll bring these back soon, sir,” Harry said instead, giving a wave as he exited the office.

Harry didn’t actually need that much time to choose whom he wanted. That answer was easy, but convincing said person to agree would be a bit harder. Harry took out the Marauder’s Map as he walked (he still couldn’t figure out how to ask Lupin about it without the map getting confiscated) and looked to see if his coast was clear. Most of the students had gone into the Great Hall for lunch, so Harry started to make his way downstairs.

When he reached the dungeons, Snape’s office still showed two people inside, Snape himself and a Ravenclaw that Harry didn’t know very well. Harry sat down on the floor in the shadows, knowing that even if Slytherins passed down the stairs to his dorm they wouldn’t see him, and started reading over the forms that Dumbledore had given him. They were written in boring legal language, but seemed to be official guardianship papers that would allow an adult to act for Harry when things needed to be signed in an official capacity.

Feeling only a little confident, and taking the chance that it would help his case, Harry took out a quill from his robe pocket and wrote a name down on the first line. _Severus Snape_. Harry had no doubt that Dumbledore could get extra copies of the form if Snape said no, but as it was a similar agreement to the contract Harry had signed in December, he held hope that new forms wouldn’t be necessary.

Harry’s eyes glanced over the map as he waiting for the Ravenclaw to leave, and noticed a flickering name tag down by Hagrid’s hut. Peter Pettigrew, the fourth Marauder and the one supposedly killed by Sirius Black.

“Skulking in the shadows, John?” Snape suddenly asked, startling Harry. Snape was standing in his open office doorway, and had somehow seen Harry. “If you’re going to stalk people, practise on someone who wasn’t a spy.”

He left the doorway, walking into the office and leaving the door open for Harry. Harry scrambled up, clutching the map and the forms as his mind flew in scattered directions. Snape used to be a spy? Was that after he’d left Voldemort? And Peter Pettigrew was alive? He’d have to find out if the Map could be tricked into miss-labelling people, but if not, it meant that Pettigrew hadn’t been killed twelve years ago. If he was here at Hogwarts, then maybe Sirius Black was targeting him, and not Harry? It was a long shot, but Harry had been wondering why Black had slashed Ron’s bed and not his own, when the trunks underneath the bed were clearly marked.

“What’s wrong with you?” Snape asked, staring at Harry. Harry’s face was twisted into an odd expression as he tried to make sense of the information bombarding his mind, and proper language failed him as too many thoughts crowded his brain.

“Peter Pettigrew is alive,” Harry blurted out, shoving the paperwork at Snape. “And I want you to be my guardian.”

Later, after Snape had stopped staring and pushed him through to his private flat, made some coffee, and forced Harry to tell the whole story behind his sudden declaration, Harry realised that Snape’s expression had been one of the funniest he had ever seen.

 


	8. Chapter 8

 

Harry stared at Snape from the couch, his fingers clutched around a coffee mug that had long lost its heat.

“You are absolutely certain that he is alive?” repeated Snape, staring at the Marauder's Map on the coffee table. It was still activated, and though several student tags seemed to be wandering about places they shouldn't be, Snape was more focused on the Peter Pettigrew tag that kept blipping in and out of the boundary by the Forbidden Forest.

“I'm pretty sure,” Harry said, also looking at the tag. “I don't think this map lies.”

“This spare bit of parchment, you mean,” Snape replied, his tone dry. Harry didn't rise to his bait though, choosing just to shrug.

“It is parchment.”

“Is this how you were able to leave Hogwarts?” Snape sternly asked.

“No,” Harry immediately answered, keeping his eyes on the map because he knew Snape would know he was being dishonest if he made eye contact. It wasn't exactly a lie, as Harry used a tunnel to get out, but the map had been what revealed the tunnel. “And I'm not going to give it over either. Even if you decide to become my guardian, that was my Dad's. And, and now it's mine.”

“Oh?” Snape quietly asked, standing up to manually add another log to the fire in his fireplace. It gave a fierce crack as the heat rushed through the wood, and it took a few moments for the sparks to settle.

“Yes,” Harry said, trying to sound as imposing as he should. Snape ignored him though, and sat back down on the couch to start taking notes about the map and where Pettigrew currently was.

“So, will you?” Harry asked, after two minutes of silence. Snape didn't look up from the map, nor did he stop writing on his pad of paper.

“Will I what?” Snape asked, focused on his task.

“Be my guardian,” Harry pushed, exhaling a bit of a fortifying breath. “Dumbledore said it was only for legal reasons, so I don't think you'd be responsible for the supervis...”

He paused as Snape leaned over the table, flicking his quill over the guardianship papers Harry had stolen from Dumbledore, and signed the bottom with quick ticks of the quill. He resumed his note taking immediately afterward, still not looking up at Harry.

“Oh,” Harry said, blinking as the ink settled into the parchment, below his own scrawl of Snape's name. Snape had just agreed to be his guardian, without even a single word against the idea. “That's it? You don't need time to consider it, first?”

Snape did look up at him this time, and Harry saw the same Snape that he'd stayed with over the summer – youthful, inquisitive, and somehow all-knowing.

“I have had more time than you could imagine,” Snape cryptically answered.

Harry glanced down, the maze of nametags on the map slowly moving like a rolling wave on the coffee table.

“Why didn't you say, or offer, before?” Harry asked, trying to keep his voice neutral and unaffected. He didn’t know why he suddenly felt hurt, because it was Snape and up until last summer he hadn’t even liked the man, but to hear that Snape had considered guardianship, and never mentioned it, felt like he’d been passed over once again. Harry Potter – the boy who wasn’t good enough.

Snape had always had a sort of malicious sixth sense for identifying the insecurities of whomever he was talking to –something Harry had noticed very early on in class– and it hadn’t abated in the least.

“It wasn’t a question of being worth the bother. Have no doubt that I have not noticed your appalling habit of not asking for help,” Snape said, sitting back against the chesterfield and looking straight at Harry. Without the distraction of the map or Snape’s notes, it was very much like being under a microscope.

“It’s not help,” Harry defended. “I’ve managed for this long with my Aunt and Uncle. It would just be a legal guardian in our world.”

Snape eyed him curiously, and Harry fidgeted in the chair.

“We shall start lessons on deception then, as your ability to lie is rather pathetic.”

“Hey,” Harry objected. But before he could say anything else, Snape asked him a question that made his stomach twist unhappily.

“How long were you going to wait before running away from your relatives, and taking the Knight Bus to Lower Tarrow?”

Harry took a moment to draw his feet up onto the chair, and to wrap his arms around his knees as he thought. He had no idea how Snape knew that was exactly what he planned to do this summer, and he was more than a little concerned that Snape could read his thoughts that well.

“A week,” Harry finally mumbled.

“Two weeks minimum,” Snape said, holding up two fingers in the polite fashion. “Unless I am absolutely certain that the blood protection no longer works, you will return to her house in order to renew it.”

Harry scowled.

“I don’t think it’ll work, if you have official guardianship over me.”

Harry felt like literally pouting, but he knew much better than that. This discussion, open as it was, was definitely in Snape’s control and he wouldn’t take the attempted manipulation well.

“Must I remind you that your _female_ living relative stepped into the role the blood protection required? I do not qualify, therefore I do not usurp the protection, and Potter if you even dare to think of mentioning my long hair–”

Harry quickly made a zipper gesture over his lips and clamped his mouth shut. Not that he was tempted to comment, but it kept the laugh in as well.

“Now. This information, much like the private lessons, is to be kept absolutely secret. I would much prefer that you did not inform your friends. I will be informing Madame Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall, but you are not to make any mention to them that anything has changed. The castle walls have ears, John, and I am trusting you to keep us both out of danger.”

“I won’t say a word, sir,” Harry said, nodding. He blinked and looked up. “Oh. Now it makes sense…in the library at my primary school was an old war poster, with a funny picture of Hitler on it that said ‘Tittle Tattle Lost the Battle’. That’s what that meant, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Snape answered. “Exactly. The spread of rumours could lead to very unpleasant consequences.”

“All right,” Harry said, relaxing back into the chair. He tried to hide his smile as he let his legs down, but wasn’t quite successful. He had a guardian now, and one that didn’t loathe him. Well, not anymore.

“So two weeks at the Dursleys, then off to h–Lower Tarrow.”

“Where the house rules will be discussed,” Snape promised, though it sounded similar to a threat. He raised his eyebrow to show he was serious.

“This is going to be the longest two weeks of the entire year. No one in that house likes me.”

“You're a thirteen year old boy with a smart mouth. I’m certain you irritate a lot of people,” Snape said, standing up and walking to the fireplace. “Now, if you are finished discussing domesticity, we must involve the Headmaster in the discussion about Peter Pettigrew.”

Harry nodded, and sat properly in the chair. Slouching on the furniture was one thing when it was just Snape there, as it was his furniture and he did it himself. But Harry suspected that Snape kept up some illusion of formality around the Headmaster, and so he’d behave.

Snape pinched a handful of Floo powder from a container on the mantel, and stuck his head through the flames, calling for Dumbledore.

Harry's eyes were once again on the map on the table, and he could only imagine what Dumbledore would think of it.

“Mischief managed,” Harry whispered, urging the map to clear itself quickly. Snape's head was still in the flames, as he discussed something, so Harry tried to fold the map as quietly as he could. There weren't many hiding spots around the living room, not many that Snape wouldn't immediately suss out, so Harry reached over quickly and shoved it under the couch cushion.

One minute later, Dumbledore gracefully stepped into the room. Both were glancing at the coffee table – Dumbledore toward the guardianship papers, and Snape to where the map had previously been.

“Hello there, Harry,” Dumbledore said, completely unsurprised to find Harry in Snape's private flat.

“Hello sir,” Harry greeted, holding up his coffee cup. “Wish some?”

Dumbledore smiled.

“Bit too late in the day for caffeine, I'm afraid,” Dumbledore said, glancing down at the papers again. “I see you've made a decision.”

“I have, sir,” Harry said, halfway to the kitchen. Snape was standing beside the fireplace; his arms crossed as he watched Harry and seemed to be waiting for what Harry was going to say.

“Professor Snape has saved me once, and I'm fairly sure he'll do it again if I need it,” Harry said, trying to sound confident, but not like he was trying to wheedle permission from Dumbledore. “He wasn't on the list of people you first mentioned, but you trust him, so I thought he was a good choice.”

Snape lifted an eyebrow without moving anything else on his face, and Harry made a mental note to learn how to do that.

“I trust him with my life, Harry,” Dumbledore said, and he looked like he was genuinely happy. “Just as I trust him with yours. I had merely not thought of the choice, but once again, I find myself happily surprised.”

There was a look passed between Dumbledore and Snape, and Harry shook his head, feeling as if he'd been left out on some sort of inside information. But the smell of the coffee in the kitchen was beckoning, and Harry suspected he'd have better luck asking Snape when Dumbledore wasn't there.

When he returned to the living room, there was a lively discussion of the remains of Peter Pettigrew that had been found after the blast. Various news articles had reported very little, but Dumbledore had been at the inquest and told the story to Harry, of how Sirius Black had hunted down Pettigrew and murdered him.

“Was he trying to kill his friends?” Harry asked, standing by the fireplace with his coffee until Snape told him to sit down somewhere.

“Well,” Dumbledore pondered, as if he was trying to decide how much Harry should know. Harry huffed, irritated that once again he was being treated like a child who was too young to know what he was in the middle of.

“There were four of them, right? The Marauders?” Harry interrupted. “And he would have gone after Professor Lupin next?”

There was a small noise from Snape's desk, where Snape had retreated to and was sifting through his notes.

“Possibly,” Dumbledore softly said. “Though he made no attempt to flee the scene, after the spell was cast.”

“Cackled like the mad hatter he is,” Snape muttered from the desk.

“Do you know what spell he used?” Harry asked, morbidly curious about the man who'd led Voldemort to his parents. “I mean, can the killing curse cause that much destruction?”

Dumbledore had wandered over to the house picture on the wall, waving his fingers and animating it somehow that a small boy, wearing oddly floppy over clothes, was running back and forth in front of the front step.

“It has never been known to, but the powers behind the killing curse are somewhat of a mystery, even more so after you were able to survive it.”

“Stop talking in riddles,” Snape ordered, turning in his chair to glare at Dumbledore. He snapped his finger and the boy in the photo instantly disappeared, though the disapproving frown on Snape's face didn't. Harry remembered that Snape had insinuated the house was the one he'd grown up in, and didn't need too many guesses as to who the boy had been.

“Black most likely didn't use the killing curse, as that spell does merely that. It kills someone, without a trace of cause of death. Terribly inconvenient for the Ministry when a Muggle is found dead from it,” Snape explained, and his tone held none of the reluctant softness that Dumbledore's had. “Black used something explosive, to the point where Muggles were murdered, and all that was left of Pettigrew's body was a severed finger. That should not have been possible, with a regular Unforgivable.”

Dumbledore looked sad at Snape's summation.

“And now Potter claims that he is alive,” Snape finished, and Harry could feel him staring at the back of his head.

“I saw his name,” Harry explained, his eyes on his coffee cup. “We were goofing around in the library, found a silly map spell, and tried it on a piece of parchment. And Pettigrew’s name appeared.”

“How interesting,” Dumbledore mused, looking at Harry. Harry refused to look up. “A map spell?”

“That’s Hermione,” Harry shrugged, speaking quickly and trying not to sound like he was lying. “She likes to work ahead, and found it in some book.”

“You know what this means, Headmaster,” said Snape, after a moment of letting the Headmaster think. Harry turned to look, and saw that Snape was casually leaning against his messy desk of notes, charts, and maps.

“Yes I do, Severus,” Dumbledore answer, his voice low and thoughtful. “If Pettigrew is alive, then perhaps Sirius Black is an innocent man.”

Snape huffed with impatience.

“Or Sirius Black is _not_ innocent, and has help getting into the castle,” Snape ground out, and Harry saw his fingers flex against the edge of the desk, as if he was resisting shaking some sense into the Headmaster.

“Severus,” Dumbledore warned.

“He knows that Black, Lupin and his father were friends,” Snape snapped, waving his hand at Harry.

“And Peter Pettigrew,” Harry added, in a low tone because he didn’t particularly wish to get snapped at personally.

“You now have three of the four, either within the castle or just outside of it,” Snape continued, not even glancing at Harry. “Potter is obviously the target, though Black the oaf slashed the wrong bed during the last attack. How many more breaches are required until you admit that we have a serious problem?”

Dumbledore played with his rings on his hand a little as he listened, a frown taking over his face.

“The security around Gryffindor Tower has been tightened, as per your last request. But if you and Harry are correct, if Peter Pettigrew is alive, then Sirius Black may be an innocent man. He was jailed for the murder of a man who isn’t dead.”

Both Snape and Harry stared at Dumbledore.

“And twelve others,” said Harry.

“Ah,” Dumbledore acknowledged. Harry wondered how Dumbledore had managed to forget that little important piece of information.

“Do not let yourself get side-tracked by this, Headmaster,” Snape warned, coming to stand behind the armchair Harry was sitting in. “Once Black and Pettigrew are detained you may interrogate all you want, but until then, you _must_ consider them both dangerous. It is quite obvious that Black, at the very least, will not stop in his quest to get to Potter.”

A house elf suddenly popped into the room, scaring the piss out of Harry but not catching anyone else off guard. It handed a small note to Dumbledore, and then disappeared just as quickly.

Dumbledore then looked between Harry and Snape, and gave a small nod with a smile.

“I can see that you have most certainly made the correct choice, Harry,” Dumbledore said, leaning forth to pick up the guardianship paperwork. “Well done.”

He left through the fireplace with a cheery smile, shortly followed by a small iron pestle that clanged against the brick behind the fire.

Harry turned to look at Snape, and nearly flinched at the irritated expression on Snape’s face. The last minute of the conversation replayed itself in Harry’s mind, and he realised that Dumbledore never promised to catch Black and Pettigrew before finding out which one was innocent.

“Take note, John,” Snape said, his voice oddly calm. “As your guardian I ask that you avenge me, because one day you will find me drooling in the corner, unresponsive, and it will be because I have had a stroke. And it will be entirely the fault of the Headmaster.”

Harry gaped slightly, before swallowing.

“Right. Avenge. Any particular hex you have in mind?”

Snape looked down at Harry, and with an odd little twist of his head, the storm cleared and a small smile appeared.

“I am certain you will learn many appropriate ones during the upcoming lessons.”

….

In April, just after the twins’ birthday, Snape disappeared to a meeting on a Saturday evening. He scheduled a lesson for Harry on the Sunday, and Harry was a bit nervous about what to expect. He walked into Snape’s office and was slightly relieved to find Snape sitting at his desk, looking extremely bored with the essays he was marking.

On the student desk in front of Snape’s was a very large bowl that glowed slightly blue, and had different carvings all over it. Definitely a new type of lesson.

“You have a notepad and a quill. Hold on to both as you enter the memory, and your assignment is to note down as many important things as possible. You will only be allowed to view this once, so pay attention, Potter. I only want the important things, not anything and everything you see. Any questions?”

Harry stared at the swirling blue-grey mist in the stone bowl on the desk in front of him.

“Nothing in there can hurt me?” Harry asked, double-checking. He used to think that simple things like a book couldn’t hurt him, but after last year, had learned to be suspicious.

“No,” Snape answered. “You will be removed from the memory once it comes to an end, and I will be in this room for the entire time.”

Harry nodded, and Snape looked pointedly down at the pensieve. Snape had spent the last twenty minutes pacing about the room, teaching robes swirling, as he lectured Harry about memories, pensieves, and their usefulness.

“Here I go,” Harry muttered, clutching the notebook and quill tightly as his finger touched the mist.

While Harry absolutely loved flying, the sensation of falling through an endless field of nothing into a memory was not something he particularly enjoyed. After a terrifying few seconds though, the ground seemed to form out of the mist surrounding him, and Harry landed with a painful thump. Memory Snape was waiting beside him, though he never acknowledged Harry’s presence.

It was late evening, and the temperature rather similar to what they were currently experiencing at Hogwarts. Harry wrote that down as Snape started to make his way through the little village they were in, darting unseen down small cobbled alleys. Harry tried to keep up, all the while nearly making himself motion sick as he kept glancing from side to side to as to not miss anything important.

They came upon a disused wooden door at the back of a pub, and Harry watched carefully as Snape put his hand to the wood. A few seconds later an unseen window in the door opened, and a gruff looking man, not much younger than Snape, demanded a password.

“Toujours pur,” Snape hissed, his voice deep and menacing. Harry nearly dropped his quill trying to write the password down, and slipped in unnoticed behind Snape as the door opened.

The room was dingy and lit only by candlelight. A round table stood in the middle of the room, with barrels of wine, ale, and whiskey stacked in the corners, and a bare light bulb (turned off), hung from the ceiling. Several people sat around the table, sitting on the barrels, and were dressed in various dark and mysterious looking clothing. Some had notes out, but most were simply sitting and talking. A few older characters – for the ones at the table all looked to be in their twenties – stood around the edges of the room and observed. Their robes, while still dark and indistinguishable, were slightly more worn as Harry was proud to have noticed, and they kept their reactions slightly more subdued, as if they’d been there before.

The younger ones at the table shared no such reservations, and were excitedly making silly plans to cause mayhem and mischief around the wizarding UK. Harry stepped around the room as he listened, knowing that none of the occupants could hear, see, or feel him. The plans being discussed were stupid ones, almost prank-ish, and not anything of Voldemort’s rather violent calibre. Harry wrote it down in his notebook though, as the memory of Snape seemed to be concentrating rather intently on the conversation.

One of the older men on the outside of the room spoke up, and Harry flinched at the sound.

“Has anyone been in contact with Sirius Black?”

It was a gruff voice, and one Harry didn’t recognize. The man stood in the corner with a hood over his face, and had dirty brown hair that hung down over his collar.

The younger people at the table all looked about, but none seemed to make eye contact. Harry was rather familiar with that move from school, when a Professor was looking for an answer and no one wanted to answer.

“Well no one has, have they?” one teen answered. He sat at the far end of the table, nearest to the shelving and old glass bottles, and had an arrogant look on his spotty face. “We’ve been trying, but Black doesn’t exactly want to be found.”

His mates laughed a bit, but this boy kept a stern look on the man who had spoken. “Not yet, anyway.”

Harry noticed that Snape was staying quiet, slouched against the wall by the door. The slouching threw Harry at first glance as Snape always made sure to be as imposing and authoritarian as he could, but as he was standing now, he not only looked younger but drew far less attention to himself.

“And you think these little pranks against Muggles will catch his attention?” Snape asked, somehow sounding quite different from how he normally did. His voice was still low, but it had an Irish accent and his rhythm was different.

“Course it will,” the boy answered, still looking arrogant, but unable to properly glare at Snape in the shadows. “Few reports of Muggle baiting, being spotted round town in dark hoods, and he’ll find us.”

“And then the killing begins,” Snape continued, in a low voice that sounded almost bored. Harry’s eyes quickly flickered around the room, and he was surprised to see that most of the people were looking uneasy. Even the boy at the table, the leader of his group of friends, faltered his smile for a moment.

“Maybe,” the boy said, after a minute of thought.

“There’s no maybe about it,” Snape answered back, keeping a sneer out of his tone. “Sirius Black murdered thirteen people, and the Dark Lord himself many others before that.”

Snape looked around the room, pulling his cloak around himself as if he’d decided the group wasn’t worth staying.

“You-Know-Who is dead,” said a second teen, from the round table. “We’ll be doing the work of Sirius Black.”

“Wonderful,” Snape snidely said, yanking the door open behind him. “Good luck in your endeavours.”

“Wait!” the boy leader yelled, standing up from the table and withdrawing his wand. Harry instinctively crouched behind a wine barrel, but by the time the boy had pointed his wand, Snape’s was already out and steady.

“I have no interest in your group and I will be taking my leave. I am well-practised with the Unforgivables, should you be thinking of detaining me.”

The Irish accent was still there, and Harry was rather impressed at how Snape stayed in character even though he was facing a wand.

“I’m not afraid of you,” the boy said, though his other friends were certainly not standing up in his defence. Harry noted, from his position behind the barrel, that the men standing near Snape had also moved further away to the sides.

“You should be,” Snape replied. The sleeves of his robe (which Harry had just noticed were much looser than his normal clothing) slipped up easily with a flick of Snape’s wand, and a dark tattoo of a snake and skull became visible on Snape’s left forearm. It was only visible for a few seconds, but it was enough to catch the attention of most of the people in the room.

“I don’t think you and I are looking for the same level of…entertainment,” Snape said, before turning to leave the pub. Harry felt himself pulled out in pursuit of Snape, but as no one there could see him, he didn’t panic. Outside Snape was glancing every which way as he left the alley, never once pausing and hardly making a sound. He turned to the left, where Harry thought the main street was, and a sickening pull yanked Harry up into the sky.

“Not good,” Harry said, sitting back into the chair and nearly braining himself on the hard wooden back, as his head tipped too far.

“Dizzy?” Snape asked, though he didn’t move from his own desk to check on Harry.

“A bit off balance,” Harry admitted. It took another minute before his head stopped spinning, and then he held up the notebook. “Do you want to check my notes?”

“I highly doubt they will make any sense to me,” Snape said, flipping through what appeared to be a potion order catalogue. “Summarize it.”

“Okay,” Harry said, standing up and looking at his notes. “The temperature was about the same as here, so the meeting either happened not that long ago, or in a place that is further south of us.”

“Continue,” Snape said, the catalogue now forgotten and his hands steeped in front of him, tapping on his chin.

“The kids at the table seemed to be of a different generation…”

Harry spoke for a good fifteen minutes, going over every single note he’d made, and summarizing as best he could. Snape seemed to be very pleased that Harry had picked up on the two different types of people in the room, those who had been in the first wizarding war, and the younger ones, who’d heard misguided stories of glory from relatives but never experienced anything. He’d also been very happy to see that Harry had noticed something that hadn’t happened: discussion of Albania or potions.

Not a single word of either had been discussed during the whole memory, and Harry found that extremely odd. He trusted Dumbledore and Snape’s information that Voldemort was in Albania, and it seemed a bit weird that a group trying to resurrect the Death Eater ideas wouldn’t have any sort of clue about that.

“Your conclusion?” Snape finally said, his chin resting on his hands. He was wearing his regular tight black waistcoat again, and Harry stared at the spot on Snape’s arm where he’d seen the Dark Mark not that long ago. Perhaps that was why Snape wore such an old fashioned suit – there was no way the sleeve would accidentally slip up and expose the Mark to students. 

“I think the meeting was set up by a bunch of bored teenagers who are looking to use Sirius Black’s escape to cause trouble. They have no idea what Voldemort’s like, and it’s all just a front.”

“Very good,” Snape slowly nodded. “You missed a few things, but your observational skills have improved immensely since the previous year.”

“Really?” Harry asked, a smile escaping onto his face. Praise from Snape somehow raised the value, likely because it was that much harder to earn.

“Yes, though for the past six months you’ve missed something painfully obvious about Lupin, and I will not pay a Knut of allowance until you figure it out.”

“Professor Lupin?” Harry asked, his brows furrowed in thought. The thought of having someone to pay him an allowance was rather novel, and it warmed him a bit as Harry was fairly certain that the sort of legal guardianship that Dumbledore had been advocating was not the sort that gave Harry a weekly allowance.

“Think about it on your own time,” Snape said. He stood up to fetch a folded map that was on the side table next to his desk, and then unfolded it in front of Harry.

“The meeting took place here. A small village on the southeast coast of England, which has little to no magical inhabitants anywhere near it. Amateur mistake, as any group of more than four wizards arriving for a meeting would cause a very suspicious spike in easily noticed magical residue.”

Harry nodded, listening intently.

“No mention was made of the potion ingredients or Albania, as you noted, concluding that this group has no real plans to help the Dark Lord, or indeed, even seek him out. Therefore, the focus is on Sirius Black, their figurehead.”

“Of course. Sirius Black supposedly blew up thirteen people, and they kept talking about pranks on Muggles and flashy smokes and bangs. He seems perfect for them,” Harry said, happy that he had no trouble following along.

“Correct,” Snape said, folding the map back up. “Utterly useless teenagers who are looking for an excuse to break the law.”

“So, still no new information on whatever potion Voldemort is brewing,” Harry said, slightly frustrated.

“Not exactly,” said Snape, his expression smug. “One of the things you didn’t notice, or I should say recognize, is that the man standing next to me when I walked into the room was the very one we met over the summer.”

Harry’s eyebrows rose instantly and he leaned back in his chair.

“The one who told you about the prices and Albania?”

“The very same,” Snape nodded. He didn’t say anything else, and looked to be waiting for Harry to say something.

“But why,” Harry pondered, trying to figure out why the man was important. Snape had not interacted with him at all during the meeting, and from Harry remembered, the man hadn’t recognized Snape at all. A sudden thought occurred to him, and he looked up to the dark gaze of Snape.

“How did you find out about this meeting? How was it advertised?”

The smile growing across Snape’s face was not necessarily a pretty one, but Harry was happy with it as it meant he’d asked the right question.

“By word of mouth in Knockturn Alley –do _not_ make any sort of movement that you recognize the name, as I will be very displeased to find that you have been there– it was advertised as a party for those who like to watch the world burn.”

Harry, who’d kept stock still on the chair, twisted his head up slightly.

“That’s really weird. Who even speaks like that?” Harry asked, tapping the toe of his shoes on the leg of Snape’s desk.  “ _For those who like to watch the world burn_.”

“Lucius Malfoy,” Snape deadpanned, and Harry laughed.

“But he wasn’t there, not that I saw,” Harry continued. “So why would it be important that your potion supplier went?”

The hourglass on Snape’s desk gave a rather soothing four chimes, signalling the hour, before turning itself over.

“I suspect he was looking for allies, or perhaps had been solicited to find some,” Snape said, rising from the table. He reached forward for a book that was at the edge of the desk, and Harry glanced at his outstretched left arm.

“That was the first time I’ve ever seen the Dark Mark,” Harry said, his voice quiet but not timid.

Snape didn’t flinch, nor did he pull his arm away.

“Some mistakes are made with a permanent reminder of them, John.”

The book, along with the map and another sheaf of parchment, were sent floating down the hallway behind Snape’s bookcase to his flat.

“Why do you still call me John?” Harry asked, watching Snape pull on his teaching robes and transform himself back into the scary potions master. “When I’m not using that disguise.”

Snape picked up his wand from the desk and slipped it up his sleeve, on the outside of his left forearm. For a flash of a second Harry thought about how odd that was, until he remembered what was tattooed on the inside of the same arm.

“Because it is a distinctive trigger,” Snape explained, moving toward the door. Harry picked up his school bag and followed. “It clearly distinguishes that I am talking to the attentive and tolerable student of the private lessons, and not the irritating Gryffindor who normally wanders these halls.”

“Oh,” Harry said, trying to hide his smirk. “Just like when I call you Uncle Sebastian?”

Snape had just extinguished the lanterns in the room, but Harry didn’t need much light to see the scowl on Snape’s face.

“You are hereby forbidden from ever referring to me by that name,” Snape growled, his hand clutched on the doorknob and yanking it open.

“I’ll think of something,” Harry promised, though he did realise that it sounded more like a threat. Deciding that he really didn’t want to wait for Snape’s answer, Harry darted across the classroom, and out the door.

 

...

 

The next Care of Magical Creatures class was held near Hagrid's hut, and it was good that the flobberworms weren't particularly interesting, as Harry's attention was elsewhere. He ignored Ron's failing attempts to feed the flobberworm more lettuce, and instead kept glancing around the hut, looking for places for Peter Pettigrew to have concealed himself. Buckbeak was still in the pumpkin patch though, and Harry didn't know how Pettigrew could edge around the forest near Hagrid's without catching either Hagrid or Buckbeak's attention.

“These are so boring!”

Malfoy's whinge grated on Harry's ears, but he ignored it in order to concentrate on the patch of forest beyond the stone wall that kept Buckbeak in. He thought he'd seen a rat, but as he wasn't sure, he didn't want to raise Ron's hopes at having found Scabbers.

“Wonder if we're going to study Weasley's family next.”

Draco's cutting voice interrupted Harry's observations again, and this time he did turn around. Ron was turning red in the face, and had forgotten all about the lettuce and flobberworm.

“I heard weasels are pretty weak and harmless,” Draco continued, staring straight at Ron.

“I'll show you harmless,” Ron grumbled, reaching into his cloak for his wand. Harry stepped in front of Ron, crossing his arms and making the most bored-looking face that he could muster. He'd seen Snape do it may times, and wanted to see if it would work with Malfoy as well.

“Weasel? Really?” Harry repeated, looking at Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle. “Is that the best you could do?”

Malfoy paused, clearly unsure of what to answer, and Harry fought not to smirk with triumph. A bell sounded from up in the castle, and the echo rang out across the grounds.

“I know you're a blond and all, but I was hoping for better,” Harry finished, leaning down to pick up his school bag. Beside him, Ron wasn't even attempting to hide his smirk. Malfoy looked both flustered and irritated.

“Piss off, Potter the Unwanted,” Draco spat, yanking his own bag up off the ground.

“I hope you step on a Lego, Malfoy!” Harry called after him, feeling much better. He and Ron both watched Malfoy storm off toward the dungeons, Crabbe and Goyle in tow, before heading up to lunch.

“What's a Lego?” Ron finally asked, after he'd stopped grinning.

“It's a Muggle toy, you build things with it,” Harry answered, following Ron into the Great Hall. The smell of stew had been wafting through the corridor right outside, and Harry's stomach was grumbling.

“What can you build with it?” Ron asked, slipping into his spot. Harry didn't miss that he'd surreptitiously looked around for Hermione.

“Anything you can think of,” Harry said, grabbing a roll from the steaming basket on the table.

“Yeah?” Ron asked, snatching one for himself.  “Should have built a cage for Scabbers with it. Maybe it would have kept Hermione's stupid cat out.”

“Ron,” Harry sighed, spotting Hermione entering the Hall. She looked uncertainly at Ron and Harry, until Harry waved her over.

“I'm just saying,” Ron hissed, nearly dipping his chin in his stew as he leaned over. “He was already injured once, he didn't stand a chance.”

“How was he injured?” Harry asked, an incredulous look on his face. He only remembered Scabbers as a mangy little thing that slept too much.

“He was missing a toe,” Ron harrumphed, just as Hermione sat down. “Or a finger,” Ron added.

“Hi Hermione,” Harry greeted, before turning to Ron. “What did you say?”

Ron looked up from his stew, his mouth full and his expression confused. He lifted up his hand and wiggled his fingers.

“What about fingers?” Hermione asked, serving herself a bowl of stew.

“Scabbers is missing one,” Harry mused, refilling his bowl. Hermione sighed and dropped her shoulders.

“I didn’t know Crookshanks was going to–”

“It wasn’t him,” Ron grumbled, his face red as he reached for another roll. Harry didn’t know if it was from the hot stew, or from embarrassment. “It’s been missing since I got him.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Harry shrugged, feigning disinterest as he went back to his lunch. It was a vey peculiar feeling, to have a bit of information that he was going to share with Snape, but not with his best friends.

….

Harry looked around the dingy room in the Shrieking Shack, trying to ignore the claw and scratch marks in the floor and on the walls. The evening hadn’t started out that pleasantly, being the night that Buckbeak was to be executed, but when they’d gone down to Hagrid’s to comfort him, well. That was when things went to hell. Scabbers had appeared in the garden just as Harry, Ron, and Hermione snuck out of Hagrid’s hut, and Buckbeak spotted the rat immediately. Harry nearly got a black eye from the hippogriff’s frantic wing beating, and he was just grateful that the bird was in hunting mode and hadn’t made a sound.

Ron wasn’t as thankful, and scooped Scabbers up in order to save his rat. He’d taken off running, closely followed by the now free Buckbeak, leaving Harry and Hermione standing by the garden with a broken chain. Harry had been about to laugh at the idiocy of it all, when a giant black dog, the same one he’d seen back in Little Whinging, had sprang out of the forest and tackled Ron.

And now here they were. Ron with a broken leg, staring at the rat that had just been revealed as Peter Pettigrew. Snape standing in the doorway of the room, his wand flickering between Pettigrew and Black. Professor Lupin’s wand was trained on Pettigrew only, and Sirius Black was the only one who seemed to find the situation funny.

“Calm yourself, Black,” Snape warned, collected and serious as he held out his wand. “Pettigrew may be alive, but I doubt very much that you are completely innocent.”

“I don’t give a jarvey’s arse about what you think, Snivelly,” Black spit back in response. Harry was taken back by the nickname.

“He’s right, Sirius. Dumbledore needs to know, and if you kill Peter now, it will be much harder to prove your innocence,” Lupin said.

“You can’t kill him,” Harry suddenly said, catching everyone’s attention. “Let him go to trial. And let him rot in Azkaban afterward.”

“Harry, he killed–” Black started, and Harry shook his head.

“And it makes us just the same, if we kill him now.”

Pettigrew nearly crumpled with relief.

“Thank you, dear boy,” Pettigrew said, trying to reach out to Harry. Snape inched forward, but Harry had pulled himself out of range.

“Don’t touch me. Harry growled, feeling a chill go through him. He wanted to be back in the castle, away from this dingy place, and away from the crazy situation he didn’t fully grasp. “The Dementors are here already, so they’ll be waiting for you.”

“As much as it pains to admit it, Potter is right,” Snape said with a thick sneer, not lowering his wand. “Back to the castle, and then to the Dementors.”

He had a twisted gleam in his eye, which made even Harry uncomfortable. Harry knew how much Snape hated Lupin and Black, but he hadn’t known that Pettigrew had also earned such a high spot on the hated list.

“Right. Myself first, I think, followed by Peter, Sirius, and then you four,” Lupin said, pointing his wand at Pettigrew and leading them out.

Harry waited as Snape levitated Ron, and then followed Sirius. Snape looked highly irritated, and Harry knew most of the reason. Even though Harry had immediately activated the anklet help signal, Snape wouldn’t exactly be pleased that he’d run off into danger before waiting for help.

Ron, who was floating directly in front of Snape, didn’t look pleased either. Professor Lupin lead the walk, seeming to have little trouble navigating as he mostly walked backwards with his wand trained on Pettigrew. Sirius Black was following Pettigrew, holding Ron’s wand, and he was followed by Harry and Hermione. Hermione dropped behind a step to hold onto Ron’s good foot, making sure that he didn’t drift into the walls (either intentionally or accidentally) under Snape’s levitation spell.

“Harry,” Sirius said, turning to glance at him. Harry walked forward a little, still keeping a bit of a distance and still making sure that he was within view of Snape.

“I know this is a bit sudden, but you know now that I knew your parents very well, and, there’s no other way to say it, but they made me your godfather,” Sirius said, with a hopeful smile.

Sirius’ tone wasn’t that loud, as if he didn’t want people to overhear what he was saying, but Harry knew that Snape had freakishly bat-like hearing and would pick it up anyway.

“I know,” Harry said, watching ahead to make sure he didn’t trip on anything in the dim light.

“Right, well,” Sirius said, with a half laugh. “I have a house. You know, if you ever wanted to leave the Dursleys.”

Harry blinked, and was surprised at the sudden guilt that hit him. This was the first time someone had actually offered him a home, and he felt guilty. Except it wasn’t really the first time, as Snape had done it without words during the summer, and without sounding if it were an afterthought of some long drawn out revenge plot.

“I…okay. I don’t really know you,” Harry tried, not saying no right away until he could think of a reason that wasn’t insulting.

“Sirius ‘Padfoot’ Black, your godfather,” Sirius said, sticking out his hand and smirking as if it was some sort of joke that Harry would find funny. When he noticed that Harry wasn’t laughing, the large smile dropped to a more normal one, and he shrugged. “It’ll be good. You can stay up as late as you want, and we can order takeaway whenever.”

Visions of the silly sleep over parties that Dudley used to have with his friends swam to the forefront of Harry’s mind.

“But you broke my friend’s leg,” Harry said, shaking his head and still taken aback at the sudden offer. Sirius had only actually spoken to Harry for less than an hour, and it was to explain how Pettigrew had been the one to betray his parents.

“Well,” Sirius sputtered, and flipped a two-fingered salute at Pettigrew’s expression. “It was an accident. I was rather focused on catching this rat bastard here.”

“I know. But, I can’t come live with you,” Harry said, almost as confused as everyone else in the tunnel at what he’d said. “I’d like to visit though.”

“I see,” Sirius said. He tried to look blank and unaffected, but Harry could tell that he’d hurt him.

“Look, it’s not–”

“It’s fine,” Sirius said, putting on a smile. “You’ve found something better. I’m just who your parents chose, and I have been in gaol.”

“Yeah, they chose you, but you’ve been acting like a mad man,” Harry said, waving his hand and almost hitting the side of the wall. “You broke Ron’s leg, you slashed his bed, you slashed the fat lady’s portrait – it all looks mad.”

“I was trying to get Pettigrew! Before he could hurt you!” Sirius defended.

“You didn’t think to write to Dumbledore?” Harry asked, honestly confused. How could Sirius possibly ask him to drop everything and go live with him, after Harry spent almost an entire year thinking that Sirius was trying to kill him?

“He might have hurt you, Harry,” Sirius explained. “I couldn’t risk it, not when Dumbledore had been a witness to the blast that I thought had killed Peter.”

“Still, wasn’t really the best idea,” Harry muttered. It was a long walk back through the tunnel without the adrenaline of chasing after Ron, and Harry felt bloody weird to be telling someone that their rescue idea was stupid, when he’d gone after a sixty foot snake only last year.

“I was just trying to protect you. I was just doing my job,” Sirius said, shrugging.

“Black, save the sob story for the Headmaster. The boy has a home and will be going there, no matter how much you beg,” Snape finally said, and he sounded a lot closer than Harry thought he was.

“I don’t beg, Snivellus,” Sirius hissed, glaring backward into the dark. Hermione pulled Ron slightly to the side, so he wouldn’t be in the middle of the glaring. “But this tunnel was almost your last sight on Earth, and I can arrange that for you again if you’d like.”

Something twigged in the back of Harry’s mind. He knew a prank had been played on Snape, which almost cost the man’s life. And now he knew it had something to do with this tunnel. But what about the tunnel?

He barely heard the squabbling over his thoughts, and carefully followed Sirius out of the tunnel. It was a very bright night out, and Harry waited with the others as Ron was slowly floated out of the opening, to make sure he didn’t smash his leg against anything.

“Remus,” Sirius said, and the dark tone in his voice sent a chill of dread down Harry’s spine.

“Get them back to the castle,” Lupin growled, and Harry’s eyes widened when his brain processed that yes, it definitely had been a growl.

“Oh no,” Hermione said, glancing between Lupin and the full moon. “I was right.”

“Right about what, Hermione?” Harry demanded. They were all seemingly frozen, watching as Lupin twisted against some invisible foe.

The flash of the Marauder’s Map went past his mind quickly, but Harry saw the names all the same. Moony. And Lupin had always been sick around the full moon. They’d planted the Whomping Willow the year Lupin had started. And finally, the scratches on the floor and the wall of the Shrieking Shack.

 “ _OH_ ,” Harry said, remembering what Snape had said about his observational skills. They were improving, but there was still something big about Lupin he’d missed.

“He’s a bloody werewolf!” Ron whimpered, pointing at the transforming Lupin. Harry didn’t see much else, as a black cloak swept in front of him at the first howl of Lupin the werewolf. Snape was pulling Harry and his friends back, protecting them.

Several things happened at once, leaving Harry very glad that for the first time, another adult was in charge. Peter Pettigrew took advantage of the transformation to turn himself back into a rat, and a very strong grip on Harry’s wrist prevented him from going after ‘Scabbers’. Sirius transformed into his dog form, chasing Lupin the werewolf away. Harry was frankly grateful for that, as he’d never seen a werewolf in person before and it was almost scarier than the basilisk, because Harry knew that just moments before it had been his logical and quite _human_ Professor.

“Get to the hospital wing,” Snape growled, still protecting Harry, Ron, and Hermione from the path that Lupin and Sirius had run off on. “I will summon the Headmaster.”

Harry had serious doubts that they could manage with Ron, but he should have known Buckbeak wouldn’t have gone far.

…

After Ron had been dropped off with Madame Pomfrey, and Snape had gone to retell the entire events to Dumbledore, Harry snuck out through the hallways for a walk. Hermione was staying behind to keep Ron company, but Harry had some excess adrenaline to burn off.

He made it to the top of the Charms wing, entering the small courtyard that separated it from the history classrooms.

“Harry!”

Sirius’ voice was a whispered hush, despite the late hour and lack of any other person around.

“Sirius?” Harry asked, stepping into the shadows of the courtyard. He could just make out the outline of Buckbeak, standing behind a potted tree. “Where’s Professor Lupin?”

“Off in the Forest,” Sirius answered. “He’ll be safe there for the night.”

Harry nodded, but didn’t know what else to say. Sirius was still dressed in his prisoner’s uniform, which Harry found a bit odd as he’d broken out nearly a year before, and surely could have found some new clothes in that time.

“I want to thank you for giving me the chance to explain, in the Shack,” Sirius continued, clapping Harry lightly on the shoulder. “And my offer still stands. Just say the word and my home is yours.”

“Er, thanks,” Harry said, slightly embarrassed. He was certain that Sirius was hoping Harry would change his mind.

“Right. You sure you want to stay with the Dursleys? I can’t say I was impressed with them last summer,” Sirius said, giving Harry a funny smile. “The scraps were terrible.”

Harry smiled himself, and shook his head.

“The Dursleys aren’t home,” Harry softly said, looking up at the moon.

“Doesn’t matter right now,” Sirius shrugged. “I’ll have to go away for a bit, until we can catch Peter again. Can’t prove I’m innocent if I can’t show he’s still alive.”

“Will you be all right?” Harry asked, regarding Sirius. The man looked too skinny, and like he’d not had a proper rest in months.

“Now that I can go back to my own house? Of course,” Sirius said, leading Buckbeak out of the shadows. “And I’ll be keeping in touch with Remus, Professor Dumbledore, and you, kiddo. Lots to keep me busy.”

“Good,” Harry said, suddenly feeling tired. Whatever energy he’d had from the evening’s rush had drained quickly, and he wanted to go and burrow in his bed. “And I can visit, sometime?”

“Absolutely,” Sirius said, carefully climbing onto Buckbeak. “James never needed an invitation, and neither do you.”

“Good to know,” Harry laughed, giving a wave as Sirius and Buckbeak took off. Harry watched them in the air for a moment, before zipping his sweater up and turning back toward the castle. His thoughts were swirling in his mind, distracting him enough that he walked directly past the shadowed figure of Severus Snape in the courtyard alcove.

 

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

Harry did not expect, ever, to see Severus Snape at the Dursley's kitchen table. The train ride home was fairly uneventful, and the permission slip Sirius had given him was in his pocket. He wasn't sure if it would be accepted, as Snape was now his guardian, but he'd save that conversation for another day in the summer when he knew Snape was in a good mood. 

Harry had dragged his trunk upstairs, not even questioning why the Dursleys hadn't taken it from him, and was in the middle of unpacking a few of his things when the doorbell rang. A muffled conversation a few minutes long then led to Snape, at the kitchen table, with Harry beside him and the Dursleys on the other side. Dudley, fearing another tail, had fled to his room.

“We told you last year that we did not want him back,” Petunia started, glaring at both Snape and Harry.

“Yes,” Snape acknowledged, sounding like he didn't care one whit. “And the Headmaster I assume has convinced you otherwise.”

“Tried to,” Vernon gruffed.

“You _were_ there to pick him up from Kings Cross,” Snape growled. “And you will put him up for two weeks.”

“And if we say no?” Petunia asked, shrewdly staring down Snape.

“Then you quite possibly sentence him to death,” Snape plainly said, holding an envelope in his hands and turning it over slowly, tapping the edges of it against the table. “He knows of the blood wards, and how you, Petunia, protect him from the Dark Lord.”

Vernon's body tensed at the word 'wards', though it was very clear to Harry that Uncle Vernon knew exactly what was being discussed.

“If he knows now, then he should be far more appreciative of what we've done for him,” Aunt Petunia waspishly said.

“Oh? A thirteen year old should be grateful you've sheltered him after his parents were murdered? Spare me the theatrics. This boy is not a threat to you.”

“He isn't normal,” Vernon spat, slamming his fist to the table. “Not like us.”

Snape opened the envelope and pulled out eight fifty-pound notes.

“Two weeks. I trust four-hundred quid is more than sufficient to cover his food costs.”

Vernon and Petunia gave each other a look, one that Harry couldn't quite understand, but he knew a decision was being made.

“Fourteen days,” Vernon finally said, holding his hand out for the notes. Snape handed them over, and stood from the table. He was wearing Muggle clothes – black trousers, a dark blue dress shirt, and stylish black shoes.

“I should also warn you, Dursley, that I am now Potter's legal guardian. Any neglect or mistreatment and I will not hesitate to prosecute.”

Uncle Vernon followed Snape to the door, probably to make sure that he actually left.

“You're the official guardian? Why don't you just take him then?” Vernon asked, his voice harsh.

Snape flung the door open and gave Vernon a completely withering look.

“The blood wards, Dursley. Do try not to be a complete moron.”

And with that, Snape swept out into the summer night.

Harry stood awkwardly by the cupboard door, the very one he used to live in.

Uncle Vernon turned to look at him, a very calculating look.

“All right, _Harry_. Two weeks, and we’ll all be rid of each other. You just stay in your room, out of our way, and I’m sure the time will pass quickly.”

There was an underlying ‘or else’ regarding Harry leaving his room and causing trouble.

Harry gave a shrug, before slowly climbing up the stairs. He could handle two weeks. Just when he'd reached the top, in the shadow of the landing, he heard Vernon whisper to his aunt, in a voice that wasn't exactly quiet.

“All he has to do is say we treated him properly, and we’ll demand another £400 from that freak when he comes for the boy.”

…

Dudley was home on Mondays and Thursdays. For whatever reason, his summer school was not in session for the entire week, though as it kept Dudley out of Harry’s hair for three days, he didn’t particularly care.

Except this week it was pouring rain, Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had gone out for the day, and Dudley had a chemistry exam on Friday. Harry knew this, as his cousin had been whinging about it the entire week, and was currently downstairs, in the kitchen, studying. Or at least he was supposed to be studying, though the constant swearing rather hinted that not much was being absorbed.

“Not so easy the second time ‘round?” Harry asked, wandering into the kitchen. It was his fifth day back in Little Whinging, and he was bored. Somehow knowing that he’d get to leave at the end of next week made the days go even slower than normal.

“Shut it, Potter,” Dudley growled. He’d spread his books out on the kitchen table, partially to inspire studiousness, but mostly to prove to Aunt Petunia that he’d been doing the work all day.

Harry filled a glass with water and leaned against the counter, watching his cousin cover the textbook page with a sheet, and then begin furiously scribbling down in his notebook.

“What’s the test on?” Harry asked, curious. He’d spent three years writing magical tests, and had rather forgotten the sort of questions on Muggle ones.

“Chemistry,” Dudley growled, still writing.

Harry was in just socks, and thus was able to slip around the kitchen and behind Dudley quickly enough that his cousin didn’t notice right away.

“The periodic table?” Harry asked, glancing over Dudley’s shoulder.

“Yes,” Dudley snapped, nearly tearing the paper with his pencil. Harry had moved back around the table, to the spot opposite Dudley’s, and was trying to read upside down.

“Real chemistry, not that stupid puff and smoke magic of yours.”

Harry snorted.

“Real chemistry, right. Unlike yours, of course. That’s why you’ve got ‘naraminium’ written down for Na?”

“Naraminium is there because that’s what it…”

Harry huffed and sat back in the chair across from Dudley. Normally he didn’t care what sort of grades his cousin got, but this was downright irritating.

“Na is sodium, you idiot. It’s like Batman. You know, Na na na na na na na na Batman? Any man in a cape who fights crime is worth his _salt_.”

“That is utterly stupid,” Dudley said, after a few seconds of staring at Harry.

“Is it?” Harry asked, pushing Dudley’s book further away. “Hydrogen, helium, lithium, beryllium, boron, carbon, nitrogen, oxygen, fluorine, neon, sodium, magnesium, aluminium, silicone, phosphorus, sulphur, chlorine, argon, potassium, and calcium. There. First twenty.”

Harry calmly finished his water while his cousin scanned the table, double-checking that Harry had been right.

“How’d you… never mind,” Dudley said, scowling at the book. “Probably just a stupid trick.”

“Of course it is. That’s how you learn it, Dudders, because if you don't know it for potions class, Snape hexes you.”

“Sure he does,” Dudley said, his tone sour. “Our professors have canes.”

“Well aren't you lucky,” Harry sarcastically said, remembering just how often Dudley had smacked him with said cane, when he'd first gotten his Smelting’s uniform when they were eleven. Harry stood up again and plucked an apple out of the fruit bowl on the table, which was pointedly ignored by his cousin.

“You aren't even trying, are you? Look, there. That's boron, rhymes with moron, you should be able to remember that.”

“Shut it,” Dudley grumbled, as Harry walked the few steps into the living room and flopped down on his Aunt's fancy couch. She wasn't here, so she couldn't screech at him for lying on his back with his feet over the armrest.

“Do you have to know all of it? That'll take all summer, that will,” Harry asked, tossing up the apple.

“Just the first twenty and five extra. Then when I'm done this stupid course, no more chemistry.”

“No more protons, no more neutrons, no more electrons, no more...” said Harry, from the couch.

“Go away, or I'll tell Mum and Dad you wouldn't let me study,” Dudley threatened.

“I wouldn't let you? Hah, like they'll believe that,” Harry snorted, tossing the apple. He knew they absolutely _would_ believe Dudley, but he didn't think Dudley would actually tell.

“Look,” Harry said, almost hitting the ceiling with the apple. “You need to use a saying to remember the rows. Something stupid, making use of the first letters of each element.”

Dudley scoffed. “And how am I supposed to do that with Pb? There's no bloody word for that, whatever it is.”

“Oh for god’s sake, it’s lead,” Harry said. “And be grateful you don't have to memorize the alchemical symbols as well.”

“In no way does Pb look anything like the word lead,” Dudley argued.

“Then remember it by something silly, like salt and Batman,” Harry retorted, snatching his left hand out on a funny angle to catch the wayward apple. Harry could almost hear the wheels in Dudley’s brain slowly grinding as he tried to think of a way to memorize Pb equalling lead.

“Lead's a funny one,” Harry said, exasperated by how thick his cousin was being. “There's all that saying about lead bullets and killing people, but when we mixed it with graphorn powder and caesium it brought Neville's toad right back to life...”

Harry shot up from the couch and completely missed catching the apple as it crashed back down onto the side table.

“Graphorn?” Dudley asked, a disgusted look on his face. “Don't tell me it's another bloody element.”

“Neville's toad wasn't quite dead, just under a spell, but it brought him back to life,” Harry muttered. “That's it.”

“What's it? A dead toad is going to help me pass my exam?” Dudley asked, clearly nearing the limit of tolerated interaction with Harry.

“No, you'll probably fail it again,” Harry bluntly said. “But I've sorted out my problem.”

He slipped out of the room, thumping up the stairs as Dudley started swearing at his textbook again.

Harry's trunk was in his room this summer, all of his possessions still in it, and not a single thing was locked in the cupboard under the stairs. Harry figured that because he was leaving so soon, his Uncle didn't want to bother with having Harry's stuff spread out through the house. And likely thought that Harry wouldn't cause trouble if he were only there for fourteen days.

Hedwig chirped in her sleep as Harry dug through his clothes and books, before pulling out his Potions notebook. He yanked out the folded parchment inside and spread it over his bed, waiting for the Periodic Table of Elements, Wizard's Edition, to settle.

The elements arranged themselves in the normal pattern, and Harry watched the alchemical symbols lazily match up to their elements.

Harry took out his small notebook he'd taken from Snape's, and flipped it open. Graphorn, Runespoor, lethifold leather, caesium, and lead. He didn't remember exactly what had been in the potion they'd used on Neville's frog (though Goyle had actually lost points from Snape over the spell he'd used), but Harry was certain Snape would know.

He pulled a spare bit of parchment out of his trunk, smoothing it out, and started writing out his suspicions. Hedwig gave Harry a dirty look when he fully woke her, but Harry had bought quite a few owl treats by post order at Hogwarts and from those she was easily swayed.

As he watched Hedwig fly out the window, aiming north west as she left, Harry sat down on the bed. The rush from figuring out the potion had fled quickly. Regeneration, that's what Voldemort was going for. Harry knew, in the back of his mind, that that was always the plan. Between the Philosopher's Stone and the memory draining Ginny in order to sustain itself, Harry knew that was the general idea.

But the potion concerned Harry, as it wasn't of a limited supply. It wasn't a single stone, and it wasn't a single diary. It was something anyone (well, not quite anyone) could make, and all Voldemort needed was someone loyal to make it for him. Someone like Peter Pettigrew.

Harry sighed, folding up the table of elements and tossing it back into the trunk. He'd been very angry with himself for letting Pettigrew go, and even Dumbledore's speech afterward about sparing Peter's life and the benefits of that hadn't helped much. He needed a distraction until he got a reply from Snape.

Harry stared at the folded parchment on top of the clothes. May as well help his idiot cousin then.

…..

Snape's reply came around eleven that night, just as Harry was drifting off to sleep. He sprung out of bed to let Hedwig in, for although the Dursleys let him keep his stuff in his room, they'd sort of vetoed the idea of Harry sending messages out.

It was more than a note though, and Harry unwrapped the package to find a pad of parchment paper and matching envelopes. He smirked, not allowing himself to laugh lest the Dursleys hear him and complain. Apparently Snape had taken offense to his scrap parchment letter paper, and sent a new batch.

_John,_

_Must you shatter my rather strong image of you lazing about during the summer by referencing chemical elements? One might assume you are a tolerable student._

_However unbelievable it may be, your hypothesis has a strong basis that will either be confirmed or denied at a meeting scheduled in a month’s time. Until then, continue to stay out of trouble, and try not to injure yourself, especially in public. Surely by now you have guessed the next potential ingredient in the potion._

_S. Snape_

Harry folded the letter up after reading it once more, placing it in the envelope of important papers in his trunk. He didn’t actually know what the next ingredient was, as he couldn’t remember what exactly had gone into the potion that revived Trevor. Snape’s remark about not injuring himself was blaringly obvious though, and Harry tried to reassure himself that he was mistaken, and that Voldemort would not be coming after him for his blood.

...

Lower Tarrow looked exactly the same as Harry remembered, though some of the details were less pristine than those in his dreams. The dreams had been a fleeting image of the sort of life he wanted, living in a small village as John Somebody, an unfamous John who wasn’t The Boy Who Lived.

He put his hand up to run his fingers through his hair, as they passed over the mill bridge, and was not surprised in the least to find his hair was the same shortly cropped style that it had been the last time Harry was disguised as John.

Snape had picked him in at the Dursleys, in a fifteen minute time span that involved Harry double checking Dudley’s second bedroom to ensure he’d packed everything, and Snape literally laughing at Uncle Vernon’s request for more money. Aunt Petunia had looked as cross as ever as Harry left, though she’d refrained from saying a word.

“Are you done dawdling? I would like to eat dinner sometime before midnight,” Snape asked, his voice carrying over his shoulder as he easily navigated the stone steps down to his front door. It was tucked away behind the edge of the bridge, more so than Harry remembered, and the stone steps were less friendly to the wheels of Harry’s trunk trolley.

The house smelled of pasta, and Harry took a deep breath as he walked in. He hung his sweater up on the hook by the front door, and glanced about the living room. It was tidy, filled with books and knickknacks, and Harry could still see the Nintendo tucked away on the shelf. He’d been looking forward to playing it all during exam study time.

“Can I sleep in the office again?” Harry asked, his voice echoing down the hall to the kitchen. Harry assumed Snape had disappeared to there, and he was proven right seconds later when Snape emerged from the kitchen with a cooking ladle in his hand.

“I suppose,” Snape answered, though he seemed to be watching Harry carefully.

“I won’t go through your stuff,” Harry petulantly said. He pushed open the door to the office, pulling in his trunk, and stopped. It was the same office Harry had slept in the summer before, but different as well. The wallpaper was still the same, and there were still bookcases against two of the walls, but the bookcases were missing some of the lower shelves, and in the corner of the room, in the nook of the bookcases, was not the cot. There was an actual bed tucked away there, a single bed with a set of midnight blue and grey sheets on it.

The desk on the wall parallel to the bed was almost identical to the one that had been in the room last summer, but it was smaller and much neater. Harry noted that the supplies on it were brand new – parchment rolls, quills, ink, pencil, even a maths set – though the map above the desk was the same pin-marked one as before. He turned to open the cupboard, and found it had been emptied in preparation for Harry’s clothes, save for two old jumpers and a pair of thick work trousers.

“Dinner is in ten minutes, I expect you will be unpacked by then.”

Harry nearly dropped the trunk on his toe as he turned to look in the doorway, where Snape had been standing and observing.

“Uh, yes,” Harry said, blinking slowly. “Yes. And thanks.”

Snape studied him for another moment, as if looking for some sort of story or memory, before nodding and returning to the kitchen.

Harry left his trunk leaning against the bed, and slowly turned around the room. Some of the bookcase shelves were empty, waiting for whatever books were in Harry's trunk. The bed looked incredibly comfortable, and there was a pair of slippers underneath the edge of it. When Harry looked in the cupboard again to start putting away his clothes, he found a shaving kit with toiletries in there – wizarding toiletries mixed in with Muggle soaps and toothpaste.

Harry smiled to himself as he put his books up on the bookcases, and the coins and bits of paper and quill nubs from his pocket on the desk. Opening the drawers confirmed his suspicions – they weren't empty, but the papers and things left inside could all be of use to Harry.

He shut the drawers, leaving his things mostly unpacked, and kicked off his shoes. The slippers were nice and warm, and though they were too large, a quick spell shrunk them down to size. After two weeks at the Dursleys, he was away in peace and quiet.

“It's been fifteen minutes, can't you count?” Snape's bellow broke Harry's concentration and he smiled.  He was certainly not looking forward to telling Sirius whom his legal guardian now was, but hopefully that day wouldn't come for a while yet. Harry flicked out the light in his room, no, in the office, remembering the conversation about names that he’d had with Snape, during the memory lesson. Walking down the hall toward the smell of pasta and garlic bread, Harry was determined to think of a much better name for Snape than ‘Uncle Sebastian.’

....

The kitchen had been rearranged as well, and Harry's eyes quickly jumped to the desk that was in the corner nearest the kitchen table. It looked to have been fitted in with the table, and was neater than the desk in Snape's office normally was. The potions bench was still set up along with wall where the mill wheel was, and it had one giant cauldron on it with ingredients lined up beside the cauldron.

“You will have a curfew,” Snape suddenly said, as he started serving himself.

“A curfew? There's fifty houses in the village, and one corner shop. Where would I go?” Harry asked, standing up and getting a plate from the cupboard when he remembered that Snape definitely wouldn't be making a plate for Harry.

“Fifty-seven,” Snape corrected, sifting through the pasta sauce to take most of the meatballs. “And as you have a knack for falling into trouble that shouldn’t exist, the curfew stands. Ten pm.”

“All right,” Harry agreed, shrugging. He'd never really had a curfew before, because Dudley had never let him have friends to hang out with. Not that he'd seen many kids in Lower Tarrow when he was here last summer.

“You will be expected to help out with chores around the house, and to keep your room clean. This is in addition to the lessons that will be continuing, as well as time spent researching.”

“Sure,” Harry said.

Snape sat down at the table and dumped an alarming amount of parmesan cheese onto his pasta.

“You will keep that anklet on,” Snape finished up, mixing the cheese into the noodles. “This is a well protected home, and the village quite safe, but as I mentioned before, you have a knack for trouble. I'm certain I will get irritated and kick you outside once in a while, so you must wear it.”

“I used it in the Shack, didn't I?” Harry grumbled, snatching the cheese away from Snape. Part of him disliked being treated like a young child, but another part of him, mostly kept buried away, boasted the fact that someone cared enough to make him wear such an anklet.

“That reminds me, Ron mentioned something about a Quidditch World Cup this summer? Do you think they still have tickets available?”

“I haven't any idea,” Snape answered, picking up a journal from the table to read as he ate. Harry was surprised to see that it was a Muggle science journal.

The room was quiet and cosy for the next few minutes as they ate, and Harry felt really relaxed for the first time that summer. He'd survived the year, survived the Dursleys, and knew that now that he was at Snape's, he wouldn't be alone against whatever would come looking for him.

“Oh,” Harry suddenly said, spearing a meatball with his fork. “Exactly how strong are the protections around the house?”

“Why?” Snape asked, not looking up from the article.

“Well, Sirius is on the run right now, but I think he won't exactly be pleased to know you're my guardian. And that I ...er, asked you to be.”

A rather sneaky smile lit up Snape's face, and it was one that made Harry a bit cross to see because Snape used it only when he was about to make fun of Gryffindors or take points.

“He won't find himself too welcome here if he tries to visit,” Snape said. “And I do recall it was your decision.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, trailing off. He thought about the day he'd made his decision, and what had gone through this mind as he had. Snape was responsible, teaching him lessons to defend himself against Voldemort, seemed to be actively planning something to prevent Voldemort's return, and he was Head of Slytherin. Snape also seemed to have a healthy suspicion of Dumbledore. Harry had definitely made the right decision with whom he'd chosen, especially when he reminded himself about Sirius's actions for the past year and his sudden out of the blue offer of a home.

“ _The Dursleys aren’t home_ ,” Snape repeated, taking a drink from his full glass of milk.

Harry nearly dropped his fork.

“You were eavesdropping?” Harry asked, narrowing his eyes at Snape.

“Don’t be stupid,” Snape said twirling more spaghetti around his fork. “You were alone, talking with a person who I still suspect is a mass murderer, and who had earlier kidnapped and injured your friend. Of course I was watching you.”

“Right,” Harry muttered, having forgotten for a second that from any other person’s perception, especially a man who had a bad history with Sirius Black, it would have looked like Harry was in danger.

“So if the Dursleys aren’t home, what is?” Snape asked, going back to his article.

Harry thought for a moment, finishing up his dinner and standing up to start the washing up.

“Hogwarts,” Harry answered, turning on the taps. In a quieter voice, and facing the window to the mill wheel, he muttered, “I think.”

…

The apparition point in Lower Tarrow seemed to be a small grouping of trees just on the other side of the riverbank. Harry didn’t know why they couldn’t apparate from Snape’s own flat, but couldn’t think of a way to ask Snape without sounding stupid.

“I thought I’m not allowed to apparate until I’m seventeen,” Harry said, following Snape into the trees and watching as the man checked a map.

“You aren’t, legally,” Snape answered. He folded the map and put it in his pocket.

“Legally,” Harry repeated. “So you’re going to teach me anyway, because Slytherins don’t follow the rules.”

“ _Snapes_ bend the rules to their liking, so yes, I am teaching you,” Snape corrected, reaching forward to yank Harry over to where he was standing. “If you are in serious enough trouble I expect you to ignore the Ministry’s rules and get yourself to safety. Understood?”

It was said in such a way that no wasn’t even an option. Harry nodded, and stood still beside Snape.

“First, the apparition by normal travel route,” Snape said, grasping Harry’s arm. The world went a sickening shade of burnt orange and brown, as Harry felt himself being folded inside out.

“Keep it in,” Snape muttered, holding strongly to Harry as they landed so he didn’t stumble.

“It’s getting easier,” Harry lied, though at least he was sure he wasn’t going to sick up. Mostly sure. “Where are we?”

“Leeds,” Snape answered looking around. It was a really windy day out, and not many were in the little park wandering about. Those that were seemed to just be passing through, and had little to no interest in Snape and Harry.

“Anything important here? The potions supplier?” Harry asked, wanting to step away from Snape’s grip.

“No, but the co-ordinates are important. Again,” Snape said, and just as Harry took a lung full of air to ask something, the world compressed itself into a dizzying array of colours.

They appeared at a gate next to a cemetery, and Harry felt much steadier than the last apparition.

“Guildford,” Snape announced, his voice slightly smug. “What is the difference?”

Harry took a few steps, running his finger along the iron fence post of the cemetery they were standing outside of.

“Much smoother landing,” Harry said, recalling that he hadn't tumbled when he'd landed. He also hadn't felt like sicking up, and he didn't feel as disorientated as usual.

“No sickness either. It almost seems like I've just stepped out of a shop door. Was that a great circle apparition?”

“Very good,” Snape nodded. “For a total distance of two hundred miles. Far less than a trip to Albania, but still much smoother than regular apparition.”

“So even a man like Voldemort, who isn’t really a man yet, could apparate that distance with as little power as he has?” Harry asked, sticking his hands in his pockets.

“I expect so,” Snape answered, watching up the road as a car came into view. “Though I shall not be apparating at random to Albania to find him.”

He grabbed Harry’s arm again, and after a not so smooth apparition, they landed back in Lower Tarrow.

“And now you will learn to apparate.”

“Oh,” Harry said, leaning against a tree as he tried to regain some sort of balance. “I suppose I should thank you for doing this before lunch.”

“Quite,” Snape said, removing a set of red rubber-ish bands from his pocket. “One on each limb.”

The bands flew at Harry and dropped to his feet as Harry stared at Snape.

“What are they?”

“They ensure that you stay in one piece whilst learning to apparate. Splinching is something I can reverse, but it does get messy and bothersome,” Snape explained, crossing his arms as he waited for Harry to pick them up.

“Splinching? Is that what it sounds like?” Harry asked, a slight note of panic in his voice.

“I will spare you the details. Needless to say, those bands ensure that you can fully concentrate on getting from one place to another, without worrying about leaving part of yourself behind.

Harry slowly put the bands on as Snape conjured two circular rings in the clearing, placing them ten feet apart. Magical bands or not, he didn’t have any faith that he’d come out of this lesson unharmed.

….

After a week of being in Lower Tarrow and staying around the house, Harry decided to get out and explore the village. Snape was busy in the kitchen with a potion, so Harry stuck his wand in his pocket and headed out. He’d looked up Lower Tarrow in an atlas in his room, but Upper Tarrow had appeared only as a dot, and the lower village hadn’t even appeared.

Harry stepped out into the front garden area of the house and up the steps to the road, noting that the nosy neighbour who’d seen him last summer was still at her windowsill, looking over the street. A glance in the front door window had confirmed that Harry now looked like John, so he shrugged his shoulders and set off.

Their building, the large mill house that had been divided into flats, stood at the edge of the bridge opposite an old school house. It had also been converted into flats, though it had much larger picture windows at the front. The street continued westward, with old stone cottage houses lining the sides of it, the road barely wide enough for cars to park. The main street twisted upward to the north, and Harry saw several little lanes bisecting the road, leading to more small homes that were likely each more than one hundred years old. At the top of the street he could see the spires of the church, and he remembered that the general shop was just a few steps before the church gate.

He saw a road sign as he walked toward the shop, pointing to the northwest for Upper Tarrow, and to the east for London.

Stepping into the shop, Harry found that he was not the only teenager that lived in the village. There was another boy in the back, dressed far fancier than Harry expected one to be during the summer, and he was comparing two different types of juice from the shelf.

“Well, you’re new here,” the boy said, not taking his eye off the juice.

“Er, yeah,” Harry said, picking up some of his own juice. His Aunt had purchased lots for his cousin, but Harry rarely ever got any.

“So who are you then?” the boy continued, almost demanding. “I’m Richard Brook. I go to Eton.”

Harry instantly disliked him, and wondered if it was just his luck to meet the Muggle version of Draco Malfoy in this village.

“John,” Harry said, casually holding the grape juice under his arm. “John Snape.”

The effect was instantaneous, and Richard Brook’s face twisted into something ugly as he looked Harry up and down.

“Snape. Fairly certain that’s not a name at Eton.”

“No, well it wouldn’t be,” Harry said, smirking a little. “We go to a private boarding school in Scotland. Nice to meet you though.”

Harry moved over to the next aisle, still well in hearing range of Richard, as the shop was ridiculously small.

“Wait, that creepy man down at the mill, with the long hair. That’s a Snape, isn’t it?” Richard asked, coming around the corner and idly picking up a packet of crisps. His face was neutral, but his tone was extremely condescending.

“You mean my Dad?” Harry challenged defensively, snatching a package of biscuits from the shelf beside him. Harry had barely a second to notice that he’d called Snape his father, instead of his uncle, when another boy joined the conversation.

“Piss off, Richie Rich.”

Richard scowled, almost hissing at the new boy. Unlike Richard, this boy was dressed in much the same clothing as Harry. Jeans and a regular t-shirt, and his hair looked more of a mess than Harry's did.

“I don't recall asking for your opinion, Sean McTannon,” Richard said, plonking a package of expensive biscuits into his basket.

“Right, just marking your little social ladder with the new boy in town?” Sean said, grinning at him. Harry was immediately reminded of the Weasley twins.

Richard muttered something that sounded quite rude, and stormed off to the cash to pay.

“Don't mind him,” Sean said, picking up a few chocolate bars on the way down the narrow aisle. “He's a poncy git who likes to put everyone down.”

“Yeah, figured,” Harry nodded. “We've got people like him at school.”

“I'll bet, they're everywhere,” Sean said. “You won't see him much though, he lives up the hill past the church and only comes down here with the peasants when he's bored.”

“Right,” Harry said, fishing in his pocket for some Muggle coins.

“But you're a Snape, eh?” Sean asked, and Harry tensed very slightly. How much should he tell?

“Yes,” Harry answered, paying for his food. He tried to sound like it wasn't a lie, wasn't a big deal, and that the Snape family wasn't full of wizards who certainly didn't attend Eton.

“Thought so. You've got that look about you,” Sean nodded, confidently. He stuck the chocolate bars he'd bought in his back pocket, and stepped out the shop ahead of Harry.

“What look?” Harry asked, baffled.

“I'm off to my Mum's for the rest of the summer,” Sean answered instead. “Hope to meet you again, John.”

“What look?” Harry repeated, clutching the biscuits in his hand. Snape had said they were the only wizards in town, hadn't he? And Snape would certainly not go around announcing he was a wizard, so Harry had no idea why Sean was acting so oddly.

“Like you see more of the world than the rest of us,” Sean shrugged, then gave a quick wave and wandered off down one of the lanes that Harry had passed by earlier.

On the entire walk home Harry debated with himself about whether he should tell Snape about the two boys he’d met, or to let it be. They were both around his age, or maybe a year older, and seemed to be residents of the town that Snape would probably recognize. But Harry was still stuck on the word he’d said. _Dad_. He replayed the conversation as he walked, lost in his thoughts all the way back down the main street toward the bridge and the mill house.

Harry wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t surprised that he’d said it, as the word had been tumbling about in his mind since the night Peter Pettigrew had escaped. But it was far too early to say it aloud, especially to other people in the town who might talk to Snape. Harry had learned at a very early age that the only way to make friends, especially with Dudley around, was to very slowly ingratiate himself in with a group of schoolmates. He’d figured that the same process would work with Snape, as Harry had watched how plenty of fathers and sons had interacted, and Snape seemed to be fitting into that role. Certainly if the office-turned-bedroom, new clothing, and threat against the Dursleys were to be counted, Snape was definitely headed to that role. But it was far too early to tell him that.

Harry didn’t want to scare him off, and Dumbledore had made it quite clear that the guardian Harry was to have picked was only for legal matters. Someone to sign forms and take care of taxes or banking or whatever else needed to be done in the background. That was part of the reason Harry had chosen Snape – he trusted the man to do those things, but also suspected that Dumbledore would never imagine that Snape would become any other sort of guardian.

Harry was pretty sure he knew why Dumbledore hadn’t suggested Snape either. Perhaps out of a feeling of guilt, Dumbledore had chosen the type of person that would be over-protective and almost…cuddly wasn’t the right word, but it was the only thing Harry could think of at the moment. And Harry didn’t want that sort of guardian. He’d not grown up with one, and was pretty sure that it would drive him crazy, as well as make him lower his guard due to being too comfortable. He needed someone like Snape, who cared, but kept him on his toes and was fully aware of the danger. Anticipating it, even.

Harry had chosen the right person, but just like in school, Harry knew he had to wait a bit longer yet before he could tell Snape that.

…

A few days before Harry's birthday, Snape announced that he had a meeting to attend at Hogwarts, and would be leaving Harry to his own devices. Harry had been playing Nintendo on and off during the time he'd been in Lower Tarrow, getting much better at Mario Kart, but Snape had told him not to ignore the books on the bookcases in his room. He hadn't banned Harry from playing Nintendo, but he had asserted that reading was extremely productive to fostering imagination, and both imagination and creativity were necessities for getting out of tight spots.

“And don't flood the kitchen,” Harry repeated, trying to imitate Snape's gravelly low voice. He'd just made some hot chocolate and was returning to his room (his room!), to check out the books that Snape had left in there. The meeting was to start at seven pm, in a few moments, but Snape had apparated early to pick a few things up from his school office. He didn't know when he'd return, but Harry knew Dumbledore could be particularly long-winded when the mood struck, and so figured it wouldn't be any time soon.

Harry put his hot chocolate on the empty space of shelf next to his bed, which he'd cleared as a side table. Most of the books in the room were boring scholarly ones, but there was a section one shelf up from Harry's side table spot that had fiction. There were mostly children's fiction there, things like _Mary Poppins, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, The Hobbit, Gulliver's Travels, Grimm's Fairy Tales, Peter Pan,_ and _The Little Prince._ Almost all had been read through numerous times, as the corners of the pages were soft, and the spines were cracked down the middle.

He selected _The Hobbit_ , having heard of it in school. Dudley did not like to read, though his Aunt and Uncle didn't care if Harry did because it was something he could do quietly in his cupboard, letting them forget that he was there.

Rain started softly hitting the window as Harry settled himself into bed, feeling that once again he was in his own little nook, with the bookcases above him. He wasn't claustrophobic, and he rather preferred the shelves overhead, giving him a set space to be in. Harry opened the book, smiling to himself at the absolute silence of the house. There was no Dudley stomping about or yelling at his PlayStation, no Uncle Vernon grumbling about politics, and no catty gossip from Aunt Petunia. Instead, Harry felt warm and comfortable, and lost himself in the tale of Bilbo Baggins.

…

Harry was sleepier than usual when he woke up the next morning, and mid-yawn remembered that he'd only been able to put the book down around three in the morning. A glance at the clock on the desk showed it was nearing nine-thirty, and the pattering on the window told Harry it was still raining.

Harry's mind was still comfortably stuck in Middle Earth, thinking of hobbits and dwarves and elves and dragons. He slowly got out of bed, stretching to the ceiling and listening to see if he could hear Snape. The washroom was between their bedrooms, but it was silent. Harry knew Snape had returned, though, because he was fairly certain that he'd fallen asleep with the book in his hand and his glasses still on, and both were now on the desk.

Reaching for his notebook, Harry wrote down a stupid little thought that had occurred to him. He was supposedly a famous wizard, wasn't he? And he was short, like Bilbo Baggins too. Maybe someone would write a book about his adventures some day. Harry wrote down in point form things that had happened to him already, from the killing curse to his relatives–no, his exile, that sounded better–to the stone, Basilisk, and now werewolf.

In an overly dramatic moment, Harry wrote down the opening line that had just popped into his mind.

“My name is Harry Potter, and this is the story of how I lived.”

Harry stuck his tongue out at the page. Maybe he'd write the book himself. People were always going to look at him as the baby who had defeated Voldemort the first time, so why not make some money off his famousness himself?

“Potter, are you getting up _any_ time this century?”

Harry stuck his tongue out at the empty doorway, but closed the notebook and headed off toward breakfast.

“How was your meeting?” Harry asked, slipping into his spot at the table. There was a stack of pancakes on a plate in the middle of the table, and a fresh cup of coffee waiting for him.

“Tedious,” Snape answered, refilling his coffee cup. “And alarming.”

Harry paused, his hand hovering over his plate and clutching the maple syrup bottle.

“Alarming?”

Snape sat back down at the table, still looking rather relaxed. Must not be an immediate threat then, Harry thought, as he released some of the tension in his muscles.

“How are you at sport?” Snape asked, tapping his fingers on the table.

“I’m fairly good at quidditch,” Harry said, thinking ahead to any other magical sports he knew of. Other than quidditch though, he couldn’t think of what else would be taught at Hogwarts.

“Muggle sport,” Snape clarified, as Harry cut up his pancakes.

“Oh, well. Pants at pretty much all of them,” Harry admitted, chomping a good-sized bite of pancakes. He could tell that these were made from scratch and not from a box mix, as they were missing that tinny flavour from the preservatives. “Is this part of the training?”

“Not exactly,” Snape answered, and he sounded slightly distracted, as if he were thinking of how to explain something. He stood up suddenly and left the room, stalking down the hall to the sitting room and the books that were there. When he returned, he was holding an old leather bound book and was flipping rapidly through the pages.

“The information I am about to share with you is not to be repeated, on penalty of death,” Snape calmly said, still searching for the right page. “Even to your friends.”

“You don’t have to be so dramatic about it,” Harry muttered, nodding anyway. Snape ignored him, though Harry was well aware that he’d heard every word.

“The Triwizard Tournament,” Snape said instead, placing the book down and pushing it toward Harry. “A full year event, between three magical schools, in which one champion from each school faces life-threatening tasks in order to win.”

There were pictures in the book, and Harry watched (with a rather disturbed expression) as one champion led a large cockatrice toward a cage filled with pixies.

“How life threatening?” Harry asked, taking another bite of pancakes, even though they’d lost most of their flavour.

“Champions have died,” Snape answered, watching carefully for Harry’s reaction.

Harry pushed the plate away.

“Let me guess, Hogwarts will be hosting it this year?”

“Indeed,” Snape said, sitting back down at his chair. His coffee mug was still mostly full, and Harry knew he wouldn’t leave the table without having finished his second cup. “And though age restrictions have been put in place, you are a bloody magnet for trouble, and I suspect someone will try to enter you into the competition.”

“Someone working for Voldemort,” Harry clarified, taking off his glasses and rubbing his eyes. “Is there some sort of potion brewing event?”

“There isn’t,” Snape carefully answered. “And the champions will be closely watched. There should be no opportunity for any potion to be slipped to you, if you are a champion.”

“Right, but there’s still the life threatening tasks to deal with,” Harry said, sarcasm edging into his voice. He knew last year had been too peaceful. “Couldn’t I just decline, if I was chosen?”

“You cannot break a binding magical contract, Potter,” Snape said, taking another sip.

“Of course not,” Harry muttered. This was not the sort of adventure he’d been planning for himself, despite reading all about what Bilbo Baggins had gone through last night.

“You could just call me John, you know,” Harry said, deliberately not looking up from his hands resting on the table. “While we’re in Lower Tarrow, if it’s easier.”

Snape appeared to consider that for a moment while he finished his coffee. _Distinctive trigger_ , Harry remembered.

“Well then, _John_ , go and find some old clothes to wear. You have a potential tournament to train for now.”

 


	10. Chapter 10

Harry’s concentration was off all day, as he struggled to work out how he could avoid being entered into the tournament. Was it something you were nominated for? If so, then he’d really be in trouble. He could just imagine the many Slytherins who would want to put his name in the hat, just to see him go through the tasks. Snape had said it was age-restricted though, which made Harry feel a little bit better.

Of course, over dinner, Harry realised that it just meant someone who was better at magic would have to trick everyone into getting Harry selected as a champion, and that was disturbing on a different level. If they were good enough to fool whatever restrictive magic Dumbledore would use for the selection, then what else would they choose to do to Harry?

Harry spent the entirety of dinner in silence, debating whether he should research the tournament further, or if he really didn’t want to know the grisly details.

“Where is your list of non-skills?”

Harry paused with the washing up for a few seconds, in order to stretch and crack his shoulders.

“My what?”

Snape was standing over his cauldron, adding something that smelled suspiciously like cloves to the mixture.

“Your list of skills that need working on. I do not like to repeat myself, John,” Snape said, stirring counter-clockwise.

“You caught me off guard,” Harry grumbled, scrubbing the roasting pan with renewed vigour. “I think it’s in my room somewhere. Are you going to focus on things for the tournament?”

“It is considered cheating for anyone, most certainly the staff of the hosting school, to help any champion with even rumours of what is to come,” Snape said, slicing something gross-looking on the chopping board in front of him.

“Yeah, but I’m not a champion yet, and I’m not, well. Not just a student, right? I’m your…uh, responsibility.”

Harry’s cheeks were slightly warm as he rambled. His hands were soapy and hot, and he purposefully reached for more dishes to wash without looking up at Snape. Snape had stopped chopping, and Harry knew that he was staring at him.

“You are my responsibility, yes,” Snape answered. “It would be cheating for a parent or guardian to help as well.”

“That’s a bit harsh,” Harry breathed out, grateful that he hadn’t stumbled and called Snape his father-like figure. “I mean, it’s going to be really dangerous, right?”

“Yes,” Snape answered simply. The thinly sliced gross things were tossed into the cauldron. “But you will have help. We’re not cheating to win the money, so it doesn’t technically count.”

Harry smirked and rinsed the pan out.

“Good to know.”

The potion in the cauldron let loose a rather loud belch from a rolling bubble.

“Yes. Now, back to your list. Are you able to swim?”

….

Harry felt like an utter tit. Lower Tarrow, being only a drive-through village, did not have a community centre or pool. Upper Tarrow did, however, and Harry was now standing at the entranceway to the pool, holding onto a shopping bag full of clothes, and listening as Snape fought with the instructor to arrange swimming lessons. The lessons were for children up to age eleven, and the only other option seemed to be one to one lessons intended for adults. The swimming instructor was trying to explain why that was, and that he had absolutely nothing to do with setting the rules, but Snape was just glaring at him and standing with his arms crossed. Harry knew exactly what that meant – Snape was biding his time before he said something scathing.

Harry leaned against the wall and looked into the bag he was holding. Snape had taken him into town earlier, and like last summer, had set Harry loose in a store to purchase clothing. He’d also forced Harry to purchase a swimming suit, and now Harry knew why. He’d never learned to swim as a child, and neither had Dudley, but the way Snape had emphasised the necessity of the purchase, Harry was now quite afraid that a swimming event would take place in the tournament.

“I see,” Snape suddenly said, and Harry’s head snapped up to catch the rest of what he had to say. “So if he should desire to join Her Majesty’s service, and fail an essential swimming test, shall I refer them to your company?”

Harry blinked, and slipped further down the hall to distance himself.

“John,” Snape warned, not even looking his way. Eyeing the wall pin board of photos of young and suspiciously happy looking kids floundering in the pool, Harry slowly made his way back.

“Look,” the swimming instructor said. “I can try to find a younger teacher for him, but he is too old for the group lessons.”

Snape glanced back at Harry once, before answering the instructor.

“Fine. Twice a week, in the mornings,” Snape said.

The instructor nodded, and also looked at Harry.

“Does he have any experience whatsoever?”

Snape regarded Harry as well.

“Bodies tend to float,” Snape shrugged. “He’ll pick it up fast.”

….

Harry followed Snape out of the centre and back toward the promenade that made up the centre of Upper Tarrow. They’d started their trip there, with Snape giving Harry £250 to buy new summer clothes. On the way back through the shops, Harry spotted a familiar figure strutting out of a sports store. He was wearing a cricket uniform, and though he looked like he’d just come from a match, not a single hair was out of place on Richard Brook’s head.

“Bollocks,” Harry grumbled.

“Really,” Snape sarcastically said, in a not-quite question. “You have lived in Lower Tarrow for a combined total of a month and a half, and have already crossed sides with the Brook family?”

They kept walking, and even though Harry was glancing about to see if any shop held his interest enough to pop in, Snape was determined to keep on his path.

“To be fair, I wanted to hex him after only two minutes,” Harry muttered, watching as another man, who could only be Richard’s father, stepped out of the shop.

“Ah, Snape, isn’t it?” The elder Brook asked, just as Snape turned slightly to go to an electronics shop.

“Yes,” Snape curtly replied, stopping only for a moment to size up the man. Pressed chino trousers, ridiculously high-polished dress shoes, crisp white dress shirt, and a white knit cricket sweater to match his son’s team colours. Certainly not clothing Snape would permit anywhere near the dungeon’s potion lab, Harry knew.

“Most fortunate. I was hoping to be able to give my congratulations. Richard here told me just the other day that you had a son! I’m afraid I don’t quite get to your end of the village all that often, so I hadn’t known earlier.”

His tone was perfectly considerate, but his study of Harry, and the clear look in his eyes of scorn, as if Harry was a scruffy abandoned puppy that had just been taken in, was not lost on either Harry or Snape.

“Yes, your absence is warmly noted,” Snape responded, tapping his foot against the cobblestone of the promenade.

Harry was too distracted worrying about what Mr Brook had said to be amused by Snape’s retort. _‘I heard you had a son’_. Richard The Prat had been the one to hear Harry’s slip up of calling Snape Dad, and of course it would be him they would run into while out in Upper Tarrow.

“Come now, old man,” Mr Brook smiled, and it was not even close to a friendly smile. “That east/west end of the village rivalry is child’s play, isn’t it?”

“Old man?” Snape asked, his head tilted in the way it normally was when he was deciding just how much punishment to dole out in class. “I do believe I am younger than you, Brook.”

“And yet, we’ve sons the same age,” Brook pleasantly said. “Bit of a head start, had you?”

Richard was smirking as he stood by his father, and Harry realised he was a bit mistaken. He hadn’t met the Draco Malfoy of Lower Tarrow. He’d met the Dudley Dursley version of Malfoy.

“I suspect it was more a lack of false-starts,” Snape honestly said. Harry was certain his lip would be bleeding by the time the conversation was done, for the amount of holding back his laughter he was doing.

“I will not be spoken to like that,” Brook growled, his face flushed with insult, but still somewhat composed. Richard’s expression, on the other hand, was livid, and he looked like he was planning what he’d like to do to Harry if he ever caught him in a dark alley.

“Ah, I don’t believe I started the conversation,” Snape noted. “And I don’t wish to continue it any further. John.”

Snape had a habit of saying his name at the end of a sentence, just his name, but somehow conveying ‘we are leaving’ along with it. Harry thought it was a brilliant way to abruptly end the conversation without appearing to be completely rude.

“Common folk, Father. There’s no excusing it,” Harry heard Richard say, as they walked off. He nearly spat the words, and Harry suddenly had the most amusing image in his mind of Richard Brook facing off against Malfoy. He just knew they’d never be friends, as there was too strong of a pull to prove which one was the better one.

“Can we introduce…” Harry started, as Snape led him into the electronics shop.

“Not on your life.”

…

It had taken Harry nearly ten solid minutes to sneak past Snape’s bedroom the night before. Last year and the year before, his birthday owls had always come just at the stroke of midnight, and as the owl flap was in the kitchen, Harry had decided to wait in there. He’d left after thirty minutes, disappointed, but still remembering to be quiet on his way back to his room. Snape had set the curfew for ten pm, and though Harry was quite certain it just meant he had to be in the house at that time, he wasn’t going to wake his professor past midnight to test the theory.

Harry was quite surprised in the morning then to enter the kitchen and find a stack of parcels next to his spot. Hedwig was cleaning herself, sitting on the owl post by the back door, and Ron’s new little owl Pigwidgeon was tucked up against her side.

“The chute is warded after eleven pm,” Snape suddenly said, from where he was crouched over his cauldron in the corner of the room. “Best to deal with potentially threatening letters when fully awake.”

Harry eyed his presents from the sink as he poured some coffee.

“Right, sure,” Harry said, nodding. Made perfect sense, to him. Sitting back down at the table, without bothering with breakfast, Harry started opening his post. He received four birthday cakes, and a package of home made biscuits from Mrs Weasley. Harry smiled, knowing he’d been sent the food as celebration, but also because they all thought he was still at the Dursleys.

Another small package was on the table, and this one, unlike the others, did not have a tag. Harry didn’t open it right away, but instead brought out his wand to poke and prod it. An unnamed package, sent to him. Snape was sitting less than five feet away and Harry knew he’d have an absolute fit if Harry just opened it without checking first.

An amused sound came from over where the cauldron was, and Harry looked up just in time to catch the downward flick of Snape’s wand. When he looked back at the parcel, ‘John’ was written on it.

“I had no idea that food was a general theme for your birthday,” Snape said, carefully pouring something into the cauldron.

“It wasn’t on purpose,” Harry lamely replied, wondering how to be vague enough that he didn’t have to explain people sending him food so he’d not starve at the Dursleys.

Opening the gift, Harry saw that there was a key dangling off the plain dark blue ribbon that surrounded the box. It was a Muggle key; the edges of it still sharp and unpolished from being duplicated the Muggle way. There was no label on it, but Harry was more than certain that it was the key to this house.

Inside the box were a few gift cards to stores in Upper Tarrow and London, along with a bank passbook. The bank account belonged to John Snape, and had ten quid in it already.

“Next week you may exchange some galleons into pounds, and put them into the account. It is _always_ beneficial to have money for the Muggle world, in case you need to hide.”

Harry nodded, not looking up. Snape hadn’t known what to get him (and Harry certainly hadn’t made a big fuss of his birthday), and yet the man had still given some gift cards for Harry to choose something he liked. And even though Snape did not make a lot of money as a professor, he’d still set aside some for Harry to start a savings account. In addition to paying for all his food and clothing this summer. _And he had a key to the house._

Harry was beginning to suspect that Professor Dumbledore had no idea what the actual definition of guardian was.

“Thank you,” Harry said, looking up at Snape. “This is really, this is great. Thanks.”

“Mmh,” Snape hummed, and Harry got the distinct impression that Snape did not like gushing appreciation, nor to be embarrassed.

“Bin the gift paper, then come here. I need you to bleed into this test tube.”

Snape could apparently also be relied on for quashing any such sentiments quite quickly.

….

Harry’s big apparition test came when Snape scheduled to meet his mysterious potion supplier again. Harry had been practising for nearly two weeks straight, standing in the trees in the creek opposite the house, with the red bands on as he concentrated on getting all the bits and pieces of himself to the next destination. He’d spun himself over far too many times to count, but did eventually apparate successfully.

This was the first time he’d be landing in London, though.

“Pictured in your mind?” Snape asked, stowing his wand up his sleeve.

“Yeah,” Harry responded, his palms damp from nerves. “Behind the nursery in Regents Park.”

“Off you go then, John,” Snape said, nodding.

Harry took a deep breath and nearly chanted his destination aloud as he was trying to focus so strongly on it. The familiar sensation sucked him away, and Harry nearly toppled over once he landed.

“You’ll find regaining your balance is easier if your eyes are kept open,” Snape stated, having arrived with a much quieter crack seconds after Harry.

“Am I all here?” Harry asked, checking his hands for all ten digits, and flexing his toes in his shoes. “I didn’t wear the bands!”

“You appear to be in one piece. Well done,” Snape said, his satisfaction evident.

“But the bands…” Harry continued, checking himself once more as if he didn’t believe he could have successfully transported himself.

“Are placebos, used so that you would not concentrate on the likelihood of splinching yourself. We have ten minutes to reach the café, let’s go.”

“But…you tricked me!” Harry said, following him down the dirt path toward the public area of the park.

“I merely focused your attention away from the troublesome parts,” Snape answered, refusing to say anything else.

The meeting place was yet another small café. Harry was once again disguised as John and placed at a table near, but not beside, the one Snape and his contact were sitting at. The conversation started out innocently enough, although it took Harry a few minutes to realise that the simple conversation was actually some sort of coded dance of words. He never worked out the code, but he knew Snape had been successful when the contact’s voice suddenly turned much warmer.

“Your reputation as an experimenter…”

“Yes,” Snape said, leaning back in his chair in an effort to prove that he didn’t care one whit what the contact thought of him.

“Might have a job for you,” the man finally said, leaning forward in an effort to not be overheard by the entire café. “If you’re any good at revival potions.”

“Magic cannot bring back the dead,” Snape pronounced, in a serious tone.

“Sure,” the contact said, laughing lowly. “But it still works a treat on the almost dead.”

Snape’s face remained thoughtful, as if he were seriously considering the job, but Harry focused only on his tea because he knew his own expression would give them away.

“And why don’t you take the job?” Snape asked, his expression turned sceptical.

The contact looked at Snape, and for once his arrogant demeanour slipped, and Harry saw the fear in his eyes.

“That reward is for greater men,” the contact said.

“There is no job,” Snape proclaimed, his tone low. Harry could see that he was almost glaring at the contact, in the same way that he interrogated students.  “Someone else has it, and you’re fishing to see if I’m in league.”

The contact’s face flushed red and he stammered. His earlier care-free demeanour had vanished.

“I wasn’t sure, I remember the trials, when I was a boy and…”

“And you want the infamy? Or you want to blackmail me, and charge higher prices. Which is it?”

“Just the money,” the contact insisted. “We heard lots of stories of bribes and…”

“Silence,” Snape ordered. “I will tell you this only once. You have been indiscreet in your mentioning of certain ingredients, the combination potentials of which will certainly catch the eye of any dark arts experienced potions master. Be very careful whose attention you attract, as you may quickly find that this isn’t merely a programme on the television to watch from behind the glass. The Dark Lord forgives no prying, cares little for bribes, but is very fond of exerting absolute power.”

Snape’s low threat left very little to the imagination at the idea of Voldemort with absolute power.

“In payment for this warning, and for my omission of your attempted solicitation of an illegal potion, you will tell me the moment you hear of a sale dodo bird feathers.”

“But those are damn near impossible to get,” the contact protested, forgetting who he was speaking to.

“Then the order should certainly capture your attention,” Snape answered. He nearly snapped to attention out of the seat, and glanced at the door. “You have two minutes to clear out of here, and the street. I will ensure you are not followed, but only this once.”

The contact, clearly worried that his attempted blackmail of a former Death Eater had caught the attention of others, barely even glanced at anyone else in the room as he darted out the door.

“Absolute idiot,” Snape muttered, sitting gracefully in the spare seat at Harry’s table.

“Will people be watching him?” Harry asked, his fingers playing with the corner of the menu.

“Anything is possible,” Snape replied, picking up a menu to see what was on offer. “I can’t say I particularly care if they are.”

Harry nodded, and when the waitress came by to take Snape’s order for lunch, Harry asked for a hot cheese and ham sandwich.

“You were right though, weren’t you? Voldemort’s making a potion to bring himself back to life?” Harry asked, his voice low to prevent being overheard.

“Yes,” Snape clearly answered, not beating around the bush. “But his arrogance has given us an opportunity. I will explain it to you later, as it will involve experimentation.”

Harry kept his mouth shut at that. He trusted Snape, but he also knew asking further questions would only irritate the man, and not gain any new information. Plus, he was having an enjoyable summer, and didn’t want to subject himself to experiments any sooner than necessary. It was a very novel, and quite enjoyable feeling, to know that whatever Voldemort was up to, it wasn’t solely Harry who had to figure the way out.

…

Since receiving his first letter from Sirius weeks earlier, Harry had taken to falling asleep and dreaming of the exotic locations his parents’ friend had ended up. Harry had no real desire to travel there himself, but he didn’t mind dreaming about it. He was a homebody through and through, and while he didn’t know if that was his natural state, or a result of the Dursleys, Harry now had a home and very little desire to leave it.

He still dreamt, of warm beaches, swimming in the ocean, tanning on the sand, and tropical dinners late into the evening. Tonight, however, his dream was running away from him and Harry couldn’t figure out how to steer it back.

The cold house he dreamt of was what Harry imagined the Shrieking Shack to be had it been built for a family to live in. The dreary furnishings and decorations, having not seen the light of day in decades, added to the chill in the air as the man in Harry’s dream creaked up the stairs. He could hear speaking, hear his own name being spoken, and literally shook in the bed when he realised he was dreaming about wizards.

The man in his dream didn’t realise it, and Harry felt himself struggling and twisting as he tried to reach out to the man, grasp him by the shoulder, and tell him to run. He stopped suddenly, as frozen as the old man when a giant snake slithered past them. Harry could hear the conversation in Parseltongue, and it was only through the man’s utter bewilderment that Harry realised it was not English he was overhearing.

When he heard the snake give up their location, Harry felt his heavy limbs jerking to life as he tried to run, grab the man, run out of the house. It was useless though, and panic coursed through him as he was brought into the room, in where Wormtail and Voldemort were sitting, but he somehow wasn’t noticed, and his yelp wasn’t heard when the old man crumpled to the floor.

“ _John_.”

Harry’s eyes burst open and he gasped, as if he were jumping back into this body that was safe and sound in Lower Tarrow. Snape was sitting at the edge of the bed, his hands on Harry’s shins as he shook them back and forth. It gave Harry something solid to focus on, until he noticed the burning pain in his scar getting stronger and stronger.

“Aggh,” Harry growled, slapping both hands on his forehead and grimacing.

“Accio liquid ice,” Snape’s voice said, from somewhere out of Harry’s field of vision. Seconds later Harry’s hands were batted away, and a very cold liquid was poured on his forehead.

“Oh, oh, what the hell is that?” Harry asked, squirming on the pillow. The liquid was a perfect counterpoint to the searing pain in his scar, but it sent shivers down Harry’s spine and made his limbs jumpy.

“You don’t call out for anyone during a nightmare,” Snape said instead, capping whatever container the liquid ice was in.

Harry already knew that, and the reason for it. He’d never called for anyone, because there wasn’t anyone to come for him. That was definitely on the list of things that Snape didn’t need to know, however.

“How did you know I was having a nightmare?” Harry deflected. He dragged himself up a little, sitting back against the pillows and reaching for the water glass that was on his bedside shelf.

“I passed by,” Snape vaguely answered. “Was it a nightmare, or a memory?”

Harry furrowed his brows in concentration, not solely regarding the dream.

“I think it might have been some sort of live dream. Voldemort was there, and so was Pettigrew. And they’re planning something for next year at Hogwarts.”

Snape nodded, lost in his thoughts.

“And he killed a Muggle,” Harry trailed off. The water glass was empty, so Harry put it back on the shelf and slid under the covers again.

“We will discuss it further in the morning,” Snape said, awkwardly patting Harry’s shin as he stood up.

“He can’t find me here, can he?” Harry asked, watching Snape walk to the door.

“There are no absolutes,” Snape immediately said, and Harry was glad that he hadn’t just lied to make Harry feel better. “But I believe his focus is elsewhere, and the Dark Lord won’t bother trying to find you here.”

“All right,” Harry said, curling onto his side. “Wait, why were you passing by? It’s almost one in the morning.”

Snape stopped at the door, and when he turned to look at Harry, he had a sly smile on his face.

“You were checking up on me,” Harry accused, without any real malice. “Do you do that every night?”

“Potter the Gryffindor?” Snape asked, a teasing tone in his voice. “I check to ensure you haven’t slipped out the window in the middle of the night.”

“Hah,” Harry said, snuggling further into the blankets as Snape disappeared down the hall. “John the Snape isn’t leaving here at all.”

….

The next letter from Sirius came the morning that Harry was to leave for the Weasleys, in order to attend the Quidditch World Cup. Harry was a bit nervous to read it, as he’d planned to also move things along slowly with Sirius, mentioning Snape’s name in passing, and trying to warm Sirius up to the idea of Snape being a responsible adult.

It wasn’t quite working, as Harry saw when he opened the letter.

_“The war was pretty much over the night you defeated You Know Who, kid. I don’t know what Snape told you, but there wasn’t anything left to be done afterward. People went on trial, some of us at least, and the Death Eaters were locked away. Snape wasn’t, but you’ll have to ask Dumbledore about that._

_Don’t trust him, Harry. He wasn’t trustworthy then, and he isn’t now. Your parents went under a spell to keep them safe, but I only found out that Pettigrew had betrayed them when Dumbledore told me. We were warned, but I got there too late. The other side had a rat too, Harry, and once a rat, always a rat._

_Anyway, I hope you have fun at the World Cup, and I’ve enclosed some galleons to buy a souvenir. Get something silly! Be safe, wherever you’re staying (Dumbledore won’t tell me, give a hint, won’t you?)._

_Sirius”_

Harry gave a small smile to the parchment as he folded it up. Right, give Sirius a hint, and watch him storm through England to get at Snape.

He flopped back on his bed as he thought about what else Sirius had written. The other side had a rat too…in other words, the Death Eaters had a spy amongst them. Of course they did, Harry thought, his eyes skimming along the books above him, as if he were a tiny explorer traveling through the land of the bookcases. Snape was obviously the intelligent spy, and he’d even told Harry that he’d turned away from the Death Eaters…after his mother had died.

Harry sat up in bed, pulling himself back so he could lean against his headboard. That wasn’t right.

“Accio journal,” Harry softly said, holding his hand out for his notebook to arrive. He flipped through the pages, skimming the beginning of the book when he’d started writing down the whirlwind of changes last summer. No, Snape had definitely said he’d left the Death Eaters when Harry’s mother had died. So was Snape lying? Was he the ‘rat’ Sirius had mentioned, or were there others?

Harry checked the clock on his desk and noticed that he still had another hour before they were to leave for the Weasleys. He could hear Snape moving about, either in the washroom or in his own bedroom, so Harry got up and quietly walked into the living room. The scrapbook of newspaper articles was in the exact same spot Harry had left it the summer before, and he took it back to his room.

Last summer, after reading through the book, Harry had decided that Snape must have lost someone in the war to keep such a detailed accounting of it. As he flipped the pages, his suspicions only grew stronger. Lily Potter was prominent in the articles, almost as much as Harry-the-toddler was. Snape had known his mother since they were children, and Harry found it very easy to believe that even if they’d had a falling out, and Snape had gone to the Death Eaters, that Snape would try to warn his mum if the family were a target.

A clearer picture was forming in Harry’s mind, and he wrote it down in point form in his journal.

  * Snape a Death Eater
  * Snape finds out about plot (why does Voldemort think only I can beat him?) and tells Dumbledore
  * Potters are still attacked, Mum and Dad die
  * Ten years later saves my life on a broomstick



He paused with his pen over the list, and thought some more. Snape had saved him, yes, but he’d also been a right prat of a professor in Harry’s first class. What if Snape had been pre-emptively angry with Harry, because Harry had survived, and his mother didn’t?

Harry knew enough about the past, Sirius, Remus, and his Dad to not even think that James Potter measured anywhere positive in Snape’s mind.

  * Offered me private lessons, to make sure I survive
  * Accepted guardianship, and provided a home



Harry’s pen paused over the last word, and he realised he was right. If Snape had been the rat all those years ago, and told Dumbledore that Harry and his parents were going to be attacked, he’d probably feel horribly guilty if Harry’s parents were killed regardless of the advanced warning. Especially as Lily, Harry’s mum, had been Snape’s best friend as a child.

But Snape didn’t stop there. Harry had seen his obsessive behaviour when brewing a new or experimental potion, and he knew Snape couldn’t let things rest until he’d done them properly. As you couldn’t bring back the dead (not that Harry was aware of, in any event), then it would only make sense for Snape to move onto the next closest thing. Protect his friend’s son.

“We shall leave in fifteen minutes. You will be apparating to the meeting point,” Snape said, standing in the doorway of Harry’s room.

“What?” Harry dumbly said, stumbling out of his thoughts and staring blankly at the door. “Right, sure.”

Snape narrowed his eyes. “Have you eaten a gobstone, or something equally stupid?”

“No,” Harry scowled. “I was just…my head’s a bit achy.”

“Oh you were _thinking_ ,” Snape announced, rolling his eyes. “Unusual exercise is bound to strain any muscle, including that one. Fifteen minutes.”

He was out the door and down the hall before Harry’s pen bounced harmlessly off the doorframe.

….

Harry’s ankle throbbed from where he’d clutched it so hard. He was sure that the anklet bands had formed welts in his skin from being held there so tightly, but he couldn’t bring himself to care that much. He could hear Snape talking quietly to Mr Weasley, and felt a bit calmer because of it. Harry couldn’t believe that the Weasleys were planning on staying in their tent after what had happened, and not leaving until morning.

“Harry,” Mr Weasley whispered, poking his head into the little sleeping wing that the boys were using. “Come on out here, and bring your things.”

Harry rolled off the bed easily, still dressed in the clothes he’d rushed out of the tent in when the first screams had taken place.

“Professor,” Harry said, nodding at Snape.

“Severus is going to take you to somewhere safe,” Mr Weasley explained, his hands holding onto a cup of coffee that showed no signs of being even remotely warm.

“Are you going to stay here?” Harry asked, slightly disbelieving. He’d stepped to the side of the table nearest Snape without really intending to.

“Just until sun up. I won’t sleep,” Mr Weasley replied. “But Severus overheard Crouch earlier, with his talk about your wand and the Dark Mark.”

“You think he was acting crazy too?” Harry asked, looking up at Snape.

“Crazy, and yet a powerful man,” Snape corrected.

“The Ministry will be conducting investigations all night and into the morning. It’s best if you leave now, Harry, and aren’t spotted by Crouch again,” Mr Weasley finished, his voice sounding final.

“You’ll tell Ron and Hermione?” Harry asked, putting his knapsack on properly. “And the others?”

“Of course,” Mr Weasley said, smiling. “And Molly too, you know how she’ll fuss.”

Harry smiled at that. He did not want to stay a moment longer at the campsite, and had resigned himself to a few hours lying awake in the bed, eyes open and anxiously listening to every new sound to discern if it was the Death Eaters returning.

“Tell her I’m fine,” Harry said, before turning to exit the tent with Snape. Harry noticed that Snape was wearing his teaching clothes, minus the long billowy robes.

“Move quickly,” Snape hissed, his tone not unfriendly, but giving an order all the same. They twisted between brightly lit tents and smouldering remnants of campfires, and at the front gate to the campsite, Harry stumbled at what he saw. The Roberts family were sitting on conjured chairs, being attended to by mediwizards. The children each had a bear and some candy to hold onto, as they sleepily tried to sit up, but Harry couldn’t stop staring at the terrified look on Mrs Roberts’ face.

“Come on, John,” Snape quietly said. He pulled Harry into the forest, until they’d reached a small clearing.

“How did you get here?” Harry suddenly asked, looking about the forest for ominous shadows. “We had to take a timed portkey.”

“I flew,” Snape answered. He pulled out a potion and gave it to Harry. “And we will fly out, as it is an undetectable method of transportation. You will need to drink that, in order to reduce the perceived weight of your body.”

Snape was watching him carefully, and though Harry was stupidly tired and still on edge, he knew he was missing something.

“What’s the side effect?” Harry finally said, not bothering to figure it all out himself.

“Slight drowsiness,” Snape answered. Harry shrugged and drank the potion. He didn’t care if he fell asleep, Snape would still get him out of there safely. But as he handed back the potion phial, Harry realised that Snape’s definition of ‘slight drowsiness’ equalled ‘knock your arse out exhaustion.’

The last thing he remembered was slumping against Snape, being rearranged so that Snape held him, and then becoming weightless as they lifted off.

…

Harry woke up as Snape opened the front door of the house in Lower Tarrow. Harry felt himself being jostled slightly, as Snape knocked the door closed behind them and strode down the darkened hallway to the kitchen. Harry blearily raised his head, slightly embarrassed to find that he’d drooled on Snape’s shoulder.

After being deposited in a chair, Harry folded his arms in front of him and laid his head on the table.

“No, drink this,” Snape ordered, putting a tiny bottle shaped phial in front of him, with a straw sticking out of it. Harry obeyed without thinking, and grimaced as the weight in his limbs returned and he sank into the chair.

“That’s a neat trick,” Harry said, rubbing his eyes.

Snape was busy filling the kettle, though from the looks of it, he wasn’t making coffee.

“I need you to tell me everything you saw, heard, felt, and suspected,” Snape said, placing a mug of hot chocolate on the table in front of Harry.

It was just past three in the morning, and Harry could feel himself drifting off now that he was away from the danger and in a safe house.

“It started with the yelling, both Mr Weasley’s and outside of the tent,” Harry began, taking a deep breath. He retold the entire event of the evening, even trying to remember exactly how Winky had worded her protests of innocence. Snape listened like a hawk, his hand flying across his notebook as he wrote down observations.

Throughout the retelling Harry felt himself start to tense again, remembering the dark shadow of the man who’d cast the Dark Mark in the sky. He remembered the sickening puppetry of the Roberts family, and what Mr Weasley had said about what the Dark Mark over a house meant.

“John,” Snape said, sitting completely still as he watched Harry.

“I knew what the Dark Mark was, right away,” Harry said, grasping his warm mug strongly. “It was the same as the one on your arm. And Mr Weasley told me what it meant, when you saw it over someone’s house.”

Snape nodded slowly, his eyes flickering over Harry’s slouching form.

“One minute they were there, and the next…they were gone,” Harry tried to explain. “And then the last man, I didn’t know what he was going to do. We could hear the footsteps in the trees, like he was coming right for us, but we couldn’t see him. And then he cast the spell, and I didn’t know if he was going to come for us next, or if he’d run off, or if he was invisible and standing next to us…”

“Stop,” Snape said, holding up his hand. “You’re a wizard who’s fought a basilisk, stood up against a werewolf, and defeated a troll. No need to work yourself into a fright over a few men wearing masks.”

He wasn’t teasing though; it was said without any trace of amusement. Harry still shook his head vigorously.

“But they were like shadows, and were faceless, and they could do the same magic, more magic, than I.”

Snape stood up abruptly, and the sound of the chair scraping across the floor of the kitchen made Harry flinch.

“Wait here,” Snape muttered, retreating down the hall and into his bedroom. It was another full five minutes before he returned, carrying an old canvas bag. It looked like the sort soldiers used to use in the world wars. The drawstring was undone, and Harry looked over the bag before glancing back at Snape and realising Snape had changed his clothes.

He was now wearing jet-black trousers, which had not a single visible seam on them. In the light of the kitchen though, Harry could see the regular pockets and two additional wand pockets on the outer thighs. The black shirt Snape was wearing was quite tight, and wasn’t just a plain t-shirt. Harry could tell from where he was sitting that it had a woven pattern to it, as if it were tear resistant.

“Regular trousers, with extra pockets for hidden secondary wands, and the occasional knife. Most Death Eaters have not learned to fight with a knife, as they find it too messy,” Snape said, pulling a pair of boots out of his bag. He didn’t put them on, but instead put them on the table.

“Reinforced black combat boots. Flame resistant, and spelled to be puncture proof. Excellent traction, though slightly clunky, and has weak points at the ankles, here,” Snape continued, tapping the sides of the boots where the laces snagged into little hooks.

Harry nodded, watching carefully. Next out of the bag came a long sleeved black turtleneck, which Snape did put on. It also fit snugly, and looked much sleeker than Snape’s normal teaching clothes.

“Flame resistant, water repellent, easy to move in,” Snape said, turning slowly so Harry could see the back. No hidden pockets, and the shirt was the exact same shade as the trousers. “However, still responds to a standard de-robing charm, unless the wearer has remembered to specifically set a counter spell.”

Harry’s small smile matched Snape’s smirk.

An odd harness made of black leather came next, and it had a shiny metal ring on the front of it. Snape slipped it on, and Harry saw that it had a wand holder, which slung over his hip like one of those old fashion western gun holders.

“Stupid fashion statement, but useful for rappelling in the extremely unlikely event it is necessary,” Snape said, looking at the belt with a scowl.

“Voldemort’s uniform choice?” Harry asked, feeling better.

“Lucius Malfoy’s,” Snape muttered, as he dug through the bag. He ignored Harry’s laugh and pulled out a thin black robe, swirling it around his shoulders.

“The colour is the exact same shade as the shirt and trousers,” Snape explained, twisting the fabric further. “It is much harder to hit a target if you cannot discern what is body, and what is merely robe.”

“Got it,” Harry nodded.

The last thing to come out of the bag was a white object, which Snape glared at.

“And finally, the mask,” Snape said, holding it up for Harry to see.

It was a grotesque white skeletal face, with deep silver and charcoal swirl designs on the cheekbones and up the forehead. The mouth was set oddly, almost as if the likeness of the mask had had it’s mouth sewn shut. The rims around the eyes were black, and Harry stared at it as shivers ran down his spine.

Harry shook his head minutely, but Snape held up his hand as he slipped the mask onto his face.

“Individually fitted. Does not actually offer facial protection, and during a battle, the air holes are insufficient.”

The mask had almost a pearly sheen to it, one he’d seen before on the set of pearls that Aunt Petunia wore when she dressed up.

“Point out what else is wrong with the mask, John,” Snape ordered, distracting him.

“Uhm,” Harry said, blinking at the creepy mask. “It’d get caught in your hair, if someone tried to pull it off.”

“Very good,” Snape said, still waiting.

Harry reached out and with hesitant fingers, touched the mask. It felt impossibly smooth, and eerily cold.

“If it shattered you’d be blind,” Harry continued.

“Yes,” Snape said, before putting his hand under the mask, near his throat. “And still leaves this area vulnerable.”

“Okay,” Harry said, ignoring his hot chocolate now. He watched as Snape pulled the mask off, and set it down on the table with a clunk.

“More importantly, what lays behind the mask are nothing more than ordinary humans, who are following the orders of the Dark Lord. This is where you have an advantage, John, as god knows you’ve never followed the rules.”

“I don’t intentionally break them,” Harry said. “Not always.”

“But you still do,” Snape countered, shoving the clothing back into the canvas bag with force. “And as much as it pains me to say this, I believe your unpredictability will lead to the Dark Lord’s downfall.”

“Great,” Harry muttered, staring into the mug.

“It’s late, and you have training in the morning,” Snape announced, watching Harry carefully. Harry nodded and swayed a little as he stood up, walking down the hall to his bedroom. He’d only been at the Weasley’s for two nights, but Harry already missed his little nook of a room, shielded from the outer elements by the giant wooden mill wheel outside his window.

Snape followed him in and held out his hand as Harry struggled out of his jumper. Snape also plucked Harry’s glasses off, and threw an extra blanket at Harry’s head as Harry climbed under the covers.

“Thanks for picking me up,” Harry said, mumbling into the pillow. “Feels much safer here.”

“Yes,” Snape answered, and the sarcasm bled through. “You feel safe here, living with a former Death Eater.”

Harry lifted his head to look at Snape, grunting at the effort.

“I think _former_ is the important part. You tried to save me when I was little. All of us. That’s when you turned away from them, not when Mum died.”

The silence in Harry’s room was stuffy, but it wasn’t complete. He could still hear the river-creek running outside, the sound of the neighbour’s damn dog barking, and water banging through the old pipes in the washroom next door.

“The details are not important, Potter, and will not be shared.”

 _Potter_. Harry’s stomach clenched and he rolled over, glad that Snape couldn’t see the guilty look on his face. He hadn’t meant to pry, and knew that he’d now slipped back a few steps in his goal of getting Snape to be a real father-like guardian.

“I’m sorry I asked,” Harry added, pulling the blankets up over his shoulders. He could tell that Snape was still in the room, but at least Harry didn’t have to look at him. It only took Harry three minutes to fall asleep, and he was fairly certain Snape had remained in the doorway the entire time.

…

In the morning, Harry sat on his bed and watched the sunrays filter through the mill wheel outside his window and into the room. There was only a week left until school started again, and Harry felt like he’d failed. His plan had been working well, and Snape hadn’t really been angry with him once all summer. It was nothing like school, and Harry loved it.

And now he’d ruined everything. Oh, he didn’t think that Snape would revoke the guardianship, but Harry was afraid that it would go to the sort that Dumbledore had originally planned. Harry would be kept at a proper distance, and denied a family once again.

“So close to having a Dad,” Harry whispered, his eyes unfocused as he gazed at some unknown spot under his desk.

When he felt like he’d wallowed enough, Harry wandered into the kitchen. Snape wasn’t there, but there was evidence that he’d had some sort of breakfast, and there was still hot coffee in the pot. So he hadn’t been gone long. The duffle bag was nowhere to be found, and Harry was quite certain he wouldn’t see it again any time soon.

Harry made some jam on toast for breakfast, keeping his eye on the clock. It was a Monday, and Harry had swimming lessons in Upper Tarrow at eleven. He figured Snape would be back in time for them, as the man had not missed out on watching a single one, but if he wasn’t, Harry knew he could apparate himself there. He was even fairly certain he could do it without injuring himself.

Just after he’d finished his breakfast the doorbell rang, and Harry looked down the hallway with suspicion. He’d been at the house for two summers, and in that time frame, had never once heard the bell ring. They didn’t get visitors, unless Harry counted the creepy dog visit on the very first night he was there.

Still wearing his pyjamas, Harry held his wand loosely in his fingers as he made his way down the hall. The door had a fancy glass inset on it, in different colours, but it was clear enough that Harry could see Mrs Sampson, his swim instructor, on the other side.

“Hello,” Harry said, opening the door. He still held his wand in his hand, but was less tense than he had been.

“Hello there, John dear,” Mrs Sampson said, her smile wide and friendly. She reminded him a bit of Mrs Figg, but with less of the cat-lady craziness.

“We didn’t change the class time, did we?” Harry asked, well aware that he looked like he’d just rolled right out of bed.

“No no,” Mrs Sampson said. “But unfortunately I have to pop into town today for an emergency appointment. Is your Dad around?”

Harry’s gut clenched ever so slightly at that, but he remembered that he had to keep up the pretence, no matter how much he wanted to pretend it didn’t exist. For a split second he panicked, wondering if he looked like John or not, as he was standing in the doorway of the house, and not outside it.

“I am.”

Snape’s voice came from the underside of the bridge, where he stepped out seconds later carrying a small wooden box full of plant clippings.

“Ah, there you are,” Mrs Sampson said, beaming at Snape. “Dreadful under there, I’d imagine. Anyway, I do apologise that I cannot teach John today, but I’ll be happy to reschedule.”

“That will be fine,” Snape said, giving her a small disarming smile. He was wearing slightly worn trousers, with mucky Muggle working boots and a thin long sleeved shirt, which had brambles caught up in it. His hair was short, his usual look for around town, but it hadn’t escaped the brambles either.

“Oh good. I really must dash, as I have to be there in an hour. Hope the traffic’s light,” she mumbled, giving them a wave as she carefully went back up the steps to her car.

Harry remained standing in the doorway, pointedly looking at the stone stoop instead of Snape.

“Say it,” Snape said, tapping his foot on the ground as he stood just inside Harry’s line of sight.

“Say what?” Harry asked, finally looking up. Snape merely continued staring, though the look on his face told Harry that his summer plan had perhaps not been as secretive as he’d thought.

“Dad,” Harry said, in almost a whisper.

Snape nodded, looking neither upset nor like he was going to laugh at Harry.

“You realise you cannot ever say that at school, outside of my own personal quarters?”

Harry’s eyes widened. Snape knew, had known for a while probably, and didn’t mind?

“Yes sir,” Harry nodded.

Snape ran his fingers through his hair, scowling as he encountered the brambles. Harry couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped, though it was more from relief than the irritation of the brambles.

“Inside and get dressed, John. Your next lesson will be in the art of occlumency.”

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There be dragons in this chapter, and some very small spoilers for the book version of The Hobbit.

 

The washing machine in the kitchen was a rather old one, but it still worked if Harry kicked the door closed with enough force. He had exactly fifteen hours to finish the rest of his laundry before going back to school, which would be plenty of time if it didn’t also include eight hours to sleep.

“Did you leave a dirty quidditch uniform in your trunk all summer?” Snape asked, walking into the kitchen with his nose wrinkled.

“Er,” Harry replied, listening as the water poured into the machine. “No?”

Snape glared at him, but instead of making eye contact, Harry tried to figure out the title of the book in Snape’s hand.

“Tattoos?”

“Yes,” Snape said, dropping the book on the kitchen table. “I am reconsidering your danger marker.”

“Oh,” Harry answered, his expression lightening. “The mark on my finger? I knew it’d be a good idea.”

“Yes, well, if your clothes washing skills are that disgusting that I do not want to imagine the state of your anklet,” Snape countered, flipping through the book to find a certain page.

“It’s clean, _Dad_ ,” Harry sarcastically responded. “I do wash myself.”

“How comforting,” Snape replied. “Sit.”

Harry plunked down at his spot on the table and looked over his hands as Snape found the page he was looking for. Harry’s hands were clean, for the most part, though there was a pen mark on the top of his left pointer finger, which he didn’t remember doing.

“Now, you must understand that this will be a permanent mark,” Snape started, his tone serious as he pointed down at the page. It was pictures of small circles, dots, and triangles, which looked like simplified chemical symbols. “It is going to hurt, and you will have a permanent link to myself.”

Harry nodded slowly, offering his hands up.

“And if I’m in trouble, and rub it, you’ll be able to find me,” Harry said.

“ _When_ you’re in trouble, yes,” Snape corrected.

“All right,” Harry nodded, keeping his left hand loose and resting on the table in front of him. “So I guess I’m asking you to be my guardian. Again.”

Snape gave him a small smirk and raised his wand.

“One would think you’re a glutton for punishment,” Snape commented, before a stabbing pain much stronger than Harry had expected jabbed into his finger.

…

By the time the welcome feast had ended and everyone had gone back to the tower, Harry was feeling sluggishly warm and full. The rain was still beating down outside, but the dormitory was warm and it was nice to see his friends and catch up on chatter again. Harry watched as Dean and Seamus pinned up posters of their sports teams again, and frowned. He should have bought one or two himself, over the summer. Then again, what he knew from quidditch was more from Ron’s enthusiastic stories rather than going to games and supporting a team. His knowledge of Muggle sports was even smaller, and Harry doubted that there was even a local team around Lower Tarrow that he could buy a poster for. Unless one counted Richard Brook and The Poncy Cricket Team.

Harry snorted quietly as he thought about what sort of poster Richard Brook would have commissioned.

“What’s so funny, Harry?” Ron asked, draping his Bulgaria scarf over the headboard of his bed.

“Nothing,” Harry smiled. “So, a thousand galleons?”

“Yeaaaah,” Ron grinned. “And you’d be famous. And get to do a bunch of spells that we’re normally not allowed.”

“Do you think your brothers can fool the age limit?” Harry asked, flopping on the bed. He noticed the little mole on his finger again, and was going to rub it out of its newness, but remembered at the last moment that Snape would get some sort of warning if he did.

“If anyone can, it’s them,” Ron said, sighing happily as he lay down and started daydreaming.

“I’ll bet you wouldn’t have to do exams either, if you won. It’s like a free pass to being king of the school,” Ron said.

Harry, who’d dug out his Marauder’s Map, spent a few moments glancing over it to see if he could find Snape.

“Hey Ron,” Harry asked, keeping his voice down. “Did your Dad ever mention Mr Crouch again?”

“No,” Ron answered, yawning. “What about him?”

“Well, he’s here,” Harry said, frowning at the map. “In the staff room.”

“Well sure,” Ron answered, twisting strangely in order to kick his socks off. “Probably talking to the professors about the tournament.”

Harry watched as several other professors entered and exited the staff room, and nodded. It made sense, after all Mr Crouch was part of the Department of International Cooperation or some sort, according to Mr Weasley.

“Did your Dad ever figure out why he was so quick to blame me at the World Cup?” Harry asked, watching the Crouch label stay still in the staffroom. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry could see Ron twisting over the side of the bed, and yanking up a bright orange book.

“No,” Ron answered. “But Crouch’s son was discovered to be a Death Eater in the first war, and Dad thinks that he doesn’t want to be embarrassed like that again, to have one right under his nose and not catch them.”

“Yeah but, I’m Harry Potter. I’d be the last person to put up a Dark Mark,” Harry said, cancelling the spell on the map.

“None of us even know how to do it,” Ron said, peering at him from over his Chudley Cannons book. “You're really not going to try for the tournament?”

“I'm really not,” Harry confirmed. “I just want one year, Ron, without being the target of something. I honestly don't mind being on the side lines.”

Ron shrugged, before putting his book down and shimmying down into the bed.

“Too bad old Lockhart’s been sectioned,” Ron said, smiling. “I bet he'd be a riot to watch.”

….

Harry didn’t have a lesson that evening with Snape, but he did have a few questions about Crouch and the assigned reading that he’d been given on occlumency. Snape had let him into the office with a sneer, which Harry knew was (mostly) for show, and not said a word as Harry followed him into the hallway behind the bookcase.

“Dad!” Harry finally said, the grin on his face wide enough to hurt. “You should have seen it! Just like _that_ he transfigured Malfoy in a ferret!”

“And bounced said ferret on a stone floor?” Snape coldly asked, sitting down in his easy chair.

“Yeah, that part wasn’t that good. But Malfoy did try to hex me, I felt it right here,” Harry said, tapping the side of his head. Snape sighed and crooked his finger, summoning Harry over.

“As Mr Malfoy was not exactly forthcoming with the reason for said hexing, I’m certain you can explain,” Snape said, moving Harry’s glasses and hair to check that he wasn’t injured.

“He insulted Mr and Mrs Weasley,” Harry point blankly said. “And when I said something about his mum, he tried to hex me.”

“So you provoked, as well,” Snape said, pushing Harry back to the couch.

“He started it,” Harry huffed, sitting down with force. “He’s always making fun of Ron’s family, or saying stuff about mine, but I can’t say anything back about his? His parents are Death Eaters! Well, his dad is, at least.”

“And so is yours,” Snape said, his tone severe and heavy.

Harry’s mouth opened to say something, but he was at a loss for words and snapped it shut again.

“I may not be your biological father, but I am your guardian, and I was a Death Eater,” Snape said, his eyes dark and very focused on Harry. “And I will become one again, if it comes to that.”

Harry sunk further back into the couch.

“So you’re saying I’m just like him,” Harry offered, his voice quiet and missing all traces of amusement it previously held.

“Hardly,” Snape said, drumming his fingers on his knee. “Draco was attempting to hex the peacocks at Malfoy Manor before he could properly speak. What I am saying is that you must take care in what you say and do. Eventually this secret will come out, and people will go looking for anything negative to say about it.”

“That’s stupid,” Harry said, kicking off his shoes so he could pull his feet up onto the couch. “It’s none of their bloody business.”

“You should be well aware by now to know that it won’t stop them,” Snape countered. “As I’ve told you before, perception to others is a very important matter.”

“Which is why I have to pretend to still hate you,” Harry said, not sounding happy about it.

“Still?” Snape replied, with an amused tone. Harry flushed red, but before he could excuse himself, Snape continued talking.

“The wondrous Professor Moody was here earlier, using his position as a retired Auror to inspect my office. A random inspection, which he helpfully explained could take place at any point throughout the year. Between him and the delegates from the two other schools Hogwarts will be under close scrutiny this year. You must be very careful, John.”

“That’s good though, isn’t it? The more eyes that are here, the less chance Voldemort can get in?”

Snape’s face twisted slightly as he stared at the entrance doorway. He appeared to be deciding something, and Harry knew not to press.

“Unless one of the new sets of eyes belongs to the Dark Lord.”

Harry also turned to look at the door, but there was no one there.

“That’s why I can’t call you Dad anywhere else, isn’t it?” Harry asked. “Only in here?”

“That information is being hidden from everyone,” Snape confirmed, slightly correcting. “Not just potential spies of the Dark Lord.”

“Oh, right,” Harry blandly said, picking at the couch cushion. Snape didn’t want anyone to know that he’d become Harry’s guardian. It was a bit unexpected, as Harry thought that Snape wasn’t anything like the Dursleys, but then, Harry knew he was quite a lot of trouble to look after. Perhaps Snape didn’t want lots of people to know that he was responsible for the Boy Who Lived to Get Into Things.

“Honestly Potter, every thought is evident on your face,” Snape dryly said. “People can find out _after_ the Dark Lord is defeated. Before that is a liability.”

“That’s fine then,” Harry said, a bit relieved. “If I’m still at Hogwarts, can I have my own bedroom down here? Maybe a Gryffindor themed one?”

Snape lowered the news paper he had picked up and glared at Harry.

“Don’t push it, boy.”

 

….

 

Harry found himself sprawled out in the couch by the fireplace in the evening, staring at his occlumency book and wondering when he’d become such a student. Snape had explained the basics of occlumency, and used legilimency to show Harry the sensation and abilities of it, but they hadn’t started actively practising it. Snape had mentioned different learning types and how difficult it was to do if Harry wasn’t prepared, which is why Harry had been assigned to read about the theory behind occlumency. It seemed that the process was very different for visual learners versus auditory learners.

Harry had no idea which he was.

“What are you working on?” Ron asked, sitting down with a plunk beside Harry.

“Snape lessons,” Harry mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

“Again?” Ron asked, snorting over his quidditch book.

“Voldemort’s still out there, isn’t he?” Harry grumpily replied. Ron looked affronted and was about to comment, but Harry slammed his book shut first.

“Sorry. I’m waiting for Sirius to reply, and he hasn’t in a month.”

“You think he’s hurt?” Ron asked, watching Harry carefully.

“No,” Harry said, leaning back against the couch and closing his eyes. He did not mention that he suspected Sirius would be, if he decided to pick a fight with Snape after finding out about the guardianship.

“Just don’t know where he is,” Harry lamely finished. Before Ron could ask anything else, Hermione bounded into the room and made a beeline for them. Harry was about to thank her for the distraction, but held right off as she started explaining about S..P.E.W.

…

The rain had not abated all week, and the enthusiastic chatter surrounding the dangerous tournament about to begin had worsened Snape’s mood. It was rather amazing, the ability of students to completely over look any sort of peril in favour of fame and money.

John, at least, knew of the danger. And if he knew what was good for him, was up in his dorm room studying Snape’s personal notes on occlumency.

Snape carefully measured out the liquid in the cauldron, ensuring not a drop was spilled on the floor. His workbench was littered with notes and experimental drafts, but he still felt extremely unproductive. He knew the ingredients, and better yet, he was fairly certain he knew what the Dark Lord was planning. What he didn’t know was how to stop it, and by the dull ache forming in his left forearm, it was something he’d have to solve sooner rather than later.

Snape let out a frustrated breath of hair, leaning his elbows onto the workbench and cradling his head in his hands.

“Ah, I thought I’d find you here.”

The soft voice came from the door to his left, the only door in the very private laboratory, but Snape didn’t flinch.

“Solace at week’s end,” Snape said, before sitting back on the stool properly.

“Certainly doesn’t seem it,” Dumbledore replied. He settled himself down at Snape’s desk, which was closer to the door and just as cluttered with paperwork. The silence in the room was comfortable as Dumbledore conjured a steaming hot tea set.

“Durmstrang and Beaubaxtons have confirmed arrival on the 30th of October,” Dumbledore offered, once he’d poured the tea into two cups.

Snape’s eyes swept up, watching the Headmaster’s actions.

“Are you certain that the protections around the cup…”

“Severus, I have checked the Goblet myself, and the Ministry will enchant it.”

“I don’t care about the Ministry,” Snape snapped, waving his hand. “What protections will _you_ place around the Goblet?”

“The age restriction line will be very difficult to fool,” Dumbledore answered. “The Goblet will also not accept any name written under duress.”

“That still leaves the possibility that an adult may enter his name,” Snape pointed out, catching the tea mug that Dumbledore had very gently sent his way.

“Yes. I am currently arranging a monitoring schedule, to ensure that does not happen,” Dumbledore acknowledged.

There was a moment’s silence as each man blew over the teacups, the liquid still too hot to consume.

“Your summer was successful?” Dumbledore asked, sitting back in the chair. To anyone else, the question would appear leading, but Snape recognised the friendly tone.

“Busy,” Snape answered, waving his free hand at the table. “Potter’s training has also gone well, and I have begun teaching him general tasks to help if he is selected for the tournament.”

Dumbledore exhaled, and put his tea down on the desk.

“There is only a slight risk…”

“You know I cannot take the chance, with Karkaroff in our back garden,” Snape interrupted.

“We also have an Auror on staff,” Dumbledore countered, still calmly drinking his tea.

“Who has already used Unforgivables in class,” Snape sneered. “The man is not now, nor has ever been, stable.”

Snape stood up from the stool and stretched, causing an audible crack to echo through the lab as his back sorted itself.

“He is a bit unbalanced, Severus, but I suppose we all are,” Dumbledore answered. He held up the teapot in a wordless offer, and Snape brought his cup over.

“He used the killing curse in class,” Snape said, with a low voice as he watched more tea being poured. “In front of the only known person to have survived it. And later that boy came to me, asking if the death he saw was really as painless as it had appeared, or if his parents had suffered.”

Dumbledore bowed his head slightly, and pushed the plate of shortbread biscuits across the desk.

“I had planned to ask how the guardianship was proceeding, but I believe that answers more than any question I could ask. And I shall have a word with Alastor.”

“It is a learning experience,” Snape admitted, staring at the blackboard behind Dumbledore. There was a rather complicated formula on it, another failure, but Snape had not erased it yet. “For both of us.”

Dumbledore turned to look at the equation as well, but Snape could see by the look on the Headmaster’s face that it looked like gibberish to him.

“Have you told him?”

“Told him what?” Snape asked, but there was an edge to his voice that betrayed his suspicions of what the Headmaster meant.

“Severus,” Dumbledore said, his voice soft. “You are hiding the very best of yourself. If there were any man in the world I would trust upon his word, it is only you.”

“I will not make that promise to Potter,” Snape denied, shuffling through his research papers again, to keep his hands busy.

“You’ve made that promise to me,” Dumbledore said, watching Snape.

“Albus, you I have already disappointed,” Snape commented with exasperation, resting his hands on the workbench and dipping his head down so his hair fell around his face. “I will not give my word to Potter that I will be able to keep him completely safe.”

Dumbledore made an odd noise, and Snape refused to look at him. Instead, he dug out a book on human physiology and began flipping through the pages.

“I don’t think he requires such finality,” Dumbledore said. “Just that you try.”

Snape’s hand fluttered in the general direction of Dumbledore, the desk, and the chalkboard.

“As you can see,” Snape said. “However, I don’t believe this will be enough, when Potter discovers who it was that put the target on his family’s back in the first place.”

“A debt I’m certain you will repay in spades before this war is finished,” Dumbledore lightly countered.

Snape didn’t say anything, but instead picked up a thin piece of lethifold leather. He twisted it over in his hands, rubbing his fingers against the leather, before putting it back down in frustration.

“Check on Longbottom at some point today,” Snape finally said, reaching for his potions note book. “The killing curse was not the only unforgivable demonstrated in class.”

Dumbledore nodded, and the teacups vanished with a wave of his wand.

“So I will,” Dumbledore acknowledged. “And do note that there have been budget changes this year. Your personal brewing budget has had its limit lifted.”

Snape looked up, slightly startled.

“Thank you,” Snape said. The budget hadn’t ever been very small, but Snape knew that trying to find a solution to the Dark Lord’s revival potion was going to be expensive. “I assume you’ll justify it for the cause, and for Potter.”

“Ah, my boy, but he is no longer Potter, is he?” Dumbledore gently asked, sweeping his hand over the room much like Snape had done only moments earlier.

“Until this war ends…” Snape said, his hand flying as his quill scribbled in the book.

“Indeed,” Dumbledore softly responded, closing the door as he left.

……

Harry arrived early for his occlumency lessons on the first Saturday morning of the school year. Most of the students, getting back into the swing of the timetable, were still fast asleep in the dorms. Even Harry, after being let in by Snape, curled up on Snape’s couch with a blanket as the man busied himself in the kitchen making coffee.

“I assure you, falling asleep during a lesson will not end pleasantly,” Snape said, setting down the coffees on the table.

“I’m trying to relax my mind,” Harry said, barely opening his eyes.

“Sit up, John,” Snape ordered.

“All right,” Harry said, pulling himself up but keeping the blanket wrapped around him.

“In order to successfully shield your mind with occlumency,” Snape started, sipping his coffee, “you must first learn the best disguise for your thoughts.”

“Right,” Harry agreed. “The book mentioned building walls, or snow castles, or a library of books.”

“Yes,” Snape said. “Those are basic elements of hiding thoughts from a legilimens, however, they rather loudly announce that you are using occlumency.”

“What do you use for yours?” Harry asked.

“Who said I was an occlumens?” Snape asked, his voice sounding far too innocent.

“No one,” Harry said, shaking his head. “You aren’t in the index of any of the books I’ve found either. But you paid someone to teach me how to swim in the summer, and you’re not doing that for occlumency.”

Snape smiled, and drank more coffee. Harry reached out for his own coffee, but it was too hot to hold, never mind drink. He didn’t know how Snape managed to drink it without scalding a layer off his tongue.

“A hobby,” Snape finally answered. “One that allows for thousands of possible memory images, which I may manipulate to my liking depending on how I wish to conceal my memories, and which is nearly undetectable due to the Dark Lord’s dislike of technology.”

Harry shook his head in confusion.

“Technology? But, you’re a potions master. A wizard.”

Snape put his empty cup down and crossed his legs, looking the very definition of smug.

“A wizard who plays Nintendo,” Snape answered.

Harry’s jaw dropped open.

“You can use Nintendo for occlumency?”

“Of course,” Snape said, waving his hand with indifference. “You have played it yourself. A multitude of different levels, playing areas, monsters, and weapons to be found. How very easy it is to hide a memory amongst those elements, against a Dark Lord who will never touch such a filthy Muggle game.”

Harry remembered playing Super Mario World during the summer, and thought of all the characters and caves and castles.

“That’s brilliant,” Harry said, once again feeling very justified in accepting Snape’s training help, and choosing him as a guardian. “And he didn’t have any idea?”

“No,” Snape said, still smiling slightly. Harry wondered if Snape was accustomed to receiving any sort of recognition, and realised that he probably wasn’t. Most of the students were too busy comparing him to a vampire to realise what a potions master he was, and Harry knew the other professors didn’t much like him either.

“It was Atari, during the first war, but the Dark Lord never bothered to check if it was anything more than the memories of a gaming-obsessed half-blood.  And so, you must find a similar method of obfuscation.”

Harry dropped his hands into his lap, feeling a slight chill from the blanket falling off his shoulders.

“Right, but, I don’t really have any hobbies. Other than quidditch.”

“A hobby is merely one choice out of many,” Snape replied, sounding none-too-bothered. “In any event, today you will not be using occlumency. Today you will be viewing two memories, one occluded, and one as normal.”

Harry nodded, watching as the familiar pensieve floated over from Snape’s desk.

“Should I be taking notes on everything, like last time?” Harry asked, watching as Snape pulled a silvery thread from the side of his head and batted it down into the pensieve’s bowl.

“You should always be paying attention to your surroundings,” Snape replied.

“Yeah, but I mean…” Harry stammered.

“The first memory you see will be the real one,” Snape explained, swirling the memory in the bowl. “The second will be an occluded one. Try to pay attention to the details, and see if you can find the masks.”

“The what?” Harry asked, confused again. “And how does Voldemort not know you're doing this, if a memory of a video game pops up every time he gets too close to something you don't want him to see?”

“You won't see the game,” Snape cryptically replied, crossing his arms and not saying anything else.

Harry shrugged, still unsure of how that was possible, and leaned over the bowl.

The memory was warm; Harry could feel the summer's heat before the visuals formed around him. He was back in Lower Tarrow, in the little office that had become his bedroom, and through the gaps of the millwheel in the window he saw that it was a very bright day. The desk was still cluttered with paperwork and notes, and the bookcases were still fully intact. Harry watched as Snape entered the room, wearing his usual summer trousers and dress shirt. Two small boxes trailed after Snape, and settled themselves on the desk.

He watched for a few minutes as Snape sorted through the desk, boxing the things that weren't useful to Harry, and leaving those that were. After the desk was finished, Snape turned to the bookcase and sorted through those to see which ones could be boxed. Harry quickly released that the boxes had some sort of space enchantment on them, like the Weasley's tent.

Several books were left out on the desk, and Harry noted that those were the Muggle fiction books that had been left on his shelf. Snape then suddenly left the room, and before Harry could wonder if the memory was over, the man returned with a shopping bag from Debenhams. Harry watched with fascination as Snape used magic to take apart the shelves in the bookcases in order to create the nook for his bed, and use the same pieces of wood to transfigure the bed itself.

Out of the bag came a rolled up mattress top, which Snape expanded with magic into a full size mattress. Sheets were then brought out, the same set of blue sheets that Harry had slept under the entire summer, and the bed was made up. A pillow was made out of a small handkerchief, and finally, the toiletries set that Harry had found in the cupboard was removed from the bag. Snape banished the price tag, and put it on the shelf in the cupboard.

The edges of the room started to turn blurry, and Harry realised that the memory was coming to an end. Harry was a bit sad that it was ending, because watching the memory was like stepping into his room again for the first time, and realising that someone had actually made one, just for him.

The first thing that clued Harry into the occlusion of the second memory, once it had formed, was that the mill wheel was not outside his window. Snape entered the room just as he had done the first time, and started sorting out the desk. Harry took that chance to look around the room, and noticed that the map over the desk was not the same one that normally was there. It was a map of Europe in general, and there wasn't a single pin on it.

The rest of the room looked just as the office had when Harry had first come to Snape's, even the books on the shelves were the same. There was absolutely no sign of Harry's presence at all, just the banal and boring memory of Snape cleaning his office on a hot summer day.

Harry was amazed at the clarity of the memory. Had he not seen the first memory, and lived in the results of the room Snape had built for him, he would have doubted it had even happened.

The room shifted again, and Harry felt a moment of motion sickness as the two memories overlapped. It was very hard to focus, though Snape's skill at occlumency was apparent as he had changed very little of the real memory into the new one. But Harry could see where the seams of the memories interlaced, and watched as the fake memory dropped into place over the real one, in a linear fashion like prizes that jumped out of the little question mark boxes in Super Mario World.

Just when his eyes were becoming overloaded with the dizzying images, Harry felt himself being pulled out of the memory. He collapsed back against the couch, keeping his eyes shut until they re-adjusted to the warm light of Snape's dungeon quarters.

“I think I saw the game, on the last combined memory,” Harry finally said, as Snape watched him carefully.

“But not the second,” Snape said, a smug look on his face.

“Not at all,” Harry said.

There was a moment's pause as Harry drank his now cooled coffee.

“I really don't think I can do that,” Harry admitted.

“Of course not,” Snape said, and Harry had an instant flashback to his potions classes, where he was constantly told what a failure he was.

“Not right away,” Snape continued, seeming not to notice the scowl on Harry's face. “But you will learn. You will figure out the best method to hide the thoughts that are not to be shared.”

Harry huffed, still doubtful.

“Can't I just block everything up? Build a sort of mind-palace, or similar?”

“What a fantastic way to tell the Dark Lord you are trying to hide something,” Snape sarcastically said.

“Fine,” Harry muttered. “But I don’t know what I’ll be able to hide my memories in.”

“You were reading books during the summer, no? And wishing to write out your life’s adventures, akin to _The Hobbit_?”

“Maybe,” Harry admitted, scratching the back of his head in slight embarrassment.

“It would seem to me, that an epic tale as such, with as many adventures as it has, would be a great place to hide certain thoughts and memories.”

Harry’s eyes brightened and he took out his notebook, ready to start noting down ideas for his method.

“Thanks, Dad,” Harry said, beginning to write.

….

Harry could still feel the stares of his schoolmates on his back. He was in the trophy room behind the Great Hall, his hearing fading out the arguing adults, but he still felt like he was in the Hall, being scowled, stared, and jeered at as he made his way to the front.

His name, out of the Goblet, as the fourth champion. What Snape had been preparing him for, and what he’d been terrified of.

Harry looked up to see Madame Maxime yelling at Barty Crouch Sr. about how it was cheating for a school to have two champions. Moody was attempting to explain the confundus charm that must have been used on the Goblet, and Karkaroff was muttering to Ludo Bagman about favouritism. Harry had had enough, and just wanted to hide. He slowly rubbed the tattooed mole on the inside of his finger, trying to fight the panic that was settling in. Snape had explained everything to him in the week before the Goblet was set out; how the contract was binding, how the tournament had three very difficult and dangerous tasks, and how he couldn’t get Harry out of the tournament even if the Goblet spat out his name.

“It would appear that Potter has become rather green,” Snape suddenly said, standing close to Harry. “Perhaps a little too much…excitement, for the boy.”

“Severus,” Dumbledore warned.

“Or perhaps guilt!” Madame Maxime accused.

“Oh please,” Snape drawled, rolling his eyes. “To fool the Goblet into accepting a student from a non-existent fourth school required much stronger magic than this boy has ever been able to produce. But by all means, continue to fight about it, and perhaps these four may return to their dorms to cause a ruckus with their classmates.”

“An excellent idea, Severus,” Dumbledore said, staring strongly at Snape. He very quickly dropped his gaze, and gave a pleasant smile to all four champions as he explained the rules for the first task. Harry was still feeling rather shell shocked and most of the information became garbled as he heard it. Harry was fairly certain though, that Snape would tell him exactly what to expect.

“Now, off we all go for the night, and enjoy the parties in your dorms,” Dumbledore finished, with a smile.

Harry gave one last glance to Snape as he and Cedric walked out, trying to mask his feeling of confusion and anxiousness.

Harry wasn’t sure what he’d encounter once he’d returned to Gryffindor Tower, but he hoped at least Ron and Hermione would believe that he hadn’t put his name in the Goblet.

…

Exactly two weeks after his name was pulled from the Goblet, Harry made his way down to the dungeons; quite certain he’d never felt this miserable before in his life. Ron was still glaring daggers at him whenever they were in the same room, and while the rest of the Gryffindors were somewhat proud to have a fellow housemate in the running, there were still mutterings of jealousy at how Harry had fooled the Goblet.

Hedwig had made her anger with him quite clear, and Harry regretted sending off the letter to Sirius in the first place. What did he really expect the man to do? It was more likely than not that he’d come in with his wand bursting with spells, likely destructive spells, to get Harry out of the tournament.

Snape hadn't even been able to, and Harry knew that, short of going to the Ministry and strangling the Minister, he'd tried his hardest.

When the Potter Stinks badges came out, Harry thought he’d quite had enough. He slipped down the stairs in the morning, dressed in his casual clothes, but wasn’t paying enough attention to distinguish between his footsteps and the echoes of others in the hallway.

“Looks like even the Champion can’t get out of a detention,” Malfoy’s sneering voice mocked.

“Shut it, Malfoy,” Harry growled, knocking soundly on Snape’s office door. He was ten minutes early for his lesson, but he didn’t care. He just wanted in.

“Don’t see why Snape bothers with you,” Malfoy continued, clearly ignoring Harry’s warning. “We’ve even got bets throughout Slytherin that you’ll be the first to die in the tournament.”

Harry turned to glare at him, wondering just how his fellow fourth year schoolmate had become so bloodthirsty.

“I’m not going to die,” Harry growled, listening for Snape’s footsteps inside the office. “I didn’t put my name in the Goblet, and I’m not going to die.”

“Sure you won’t,” Malfoy said. “Only, there’s four hundred galleons in the pot, so make it a good one, won’t you? Nice and bloody and gruesome.”

“Malfoy, what the fuck?” Harry asked, just as Snape’s office door opened.

“What?” Malfoy asked, feigning innocence. “You don’t have any family who cares enough to go to the funeral. It doesn't matter what you'll look like.”

“Mr Malfoy, you seem to be awake rather early. In need of something to do?” Snape asked, the boredom evident on his face. He took one second to look at Harry’s horrified expression before pushing Harry into the office. Harry heard Malfoy's sneering 'no sir', but nothing more.

Harry slumped to the floor in the office, as Malfoy’s words hit him. He was fourteen years old, and quite a few of the students at his school were betting on him to die.

“John. Up off the floor,” Snape said, his deep voice merely a whisper in the dim light of the office. “Vile things have been spilled here by clumsy and idiotic students.”

Two strong hands hooked under Harry’s arms, and he felt himself lifted up off the floor. He leaned against Snape for a few seconds, before he was guided to the bookcase doorway. He wasn’t let go of, but instead the same strong grip on his arms steered him into the flat and to the couch.

“Egg or French toast?” Snape asked, looking steadily at Harry

Harry was expecting questions about his behaviour, about why he was acting like a silly four year old, so the enquiry caught him off guard.

“Uh, French toast,” Harry said. “Don't think I can stomach plain eggs.”

Snape nodded, and then spoke their order to someone in the fireplace. He then left the room, turning left by his desk into his own bedroom area. When he returned, he held a small leather-banded watch in his hand. It had a grey face, and though there were a few scratches on the glass, it was still ticking away seconds. Harry saw that in the middle there was a small compass.

“For the next time you get lost,” Snape told him, holding it out to Harry.

Harry let out a breath as he put it on the watch, the clasp resting in the old crease of the band that had been formed when Snape wore it.

“Thanks,” Harry said, looking up at Snape. Snape just regarded him carefully, as if he was trying to read Harry's anxiety.

The fireplace emitted a high-pitched dinging noise, and Harry flinched on the couch. Snape rose to collect the breakfast order, with a look of curiosity on his face.

“When on earth did you start having such panic attacks?”

“They're not panic attacks,” Harry petulantly said. “I've just never had anyone to notice before.”

“I see,” Snape said, setting down breakfast on the coffee table. “That...could be very detrimental.”

“I'll try not to,” Harry said, focusing only on his breakfast as he cut up bite-sized chunks. “It's just every once in a while, I get a bit...there's a bit too much.”

“Hmm,” Snape hummed, though it was a pensive hum, not a happy one. He ate some of his eggs as Harry made his way through the French toast.

“You do know that the house key I gave you for the summer, also works here?” Snape asked, conversationally.

“No,” Harry said, blinking.

“Incidentally, if you're going to have a panic attack, I'd much rather you do it here, than out in the school halls, where I’d have to explain that you’d imbibed a noxious potion,” Snape continued.

“It wasn't a panic attack,” Harry insisted. “I can keep it together when other people are around.”

“And yet, you did not come down here to practise your lessons,” Snape pointed out.

Harry gave his breakfast a miserable look.

“Well, you're not other people, are you?” Harry asked.

“John?”

“I don’t want to go back out there, Dad. They want me to die,” Harry said, tugging the couch blanket from under him. “It's been two weeks, and even in the dorms I can hear it. Even when I shut the curtains.”

“I have often told the Headmaster that children are the most vile of creatures,” Snape mused, sitting back in his seat. “Regardless, I suspect the panic and anxiety that you are facing now comes largely in part from not knowing what is ahead.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, wrapping the blanket around himself. “All I know is that people have died in this tournament, and there are three tasks. And you aren't allowed to help me.”

Snape scoffed as he stood up and fetched a book from his bookcase.

“I have decided to take a much less passive role in my form of cheating,” Snape cryptically said. “There is, however, a form of censorship of certain words regarding the tasks. So, for example, I cannot name the very...thing that you will face.”

Harry's face fell. He'd be fighting something alive then, that at least told him something. And maybe Snape could give him enough hints to figure it out on his own.

“You will be facing Smaug,” Snape clarified, watching Harry for the connection to make sense.

“Smog?” Harry asked, eyes narrowed in confusion. “Like, the weather junk or...?”

“You read _The Hobbit_ ,” Snape said.

“Yeah, but Smaug...THE DRAGON?” Harry yelped, crouching up on his feet on the couch. “I have to fight a bloody dragon?”

“The fighting is optional,” Snape said, tapping the book in his hands. “What was Smaug guarding, John?”

“Gold,” Harry murmured, still crouched on the chesterfield as if he were ready to sprint out the flat at a moment’s notice. “Lots of gold.”

“Not only gold. But you only need fetch one thing,” Snape clarified, sitting back down in his armchair.

“But if I've only got a wand, how can I get whatever it is away from the dragon?” Harry asked.

“How did you steal money from me on the second day you were in my home?” Snape asked.

“I didn’t steal it!” Harry countered, rocking back against the couch and wrapping his arms around his knees. “I borrow....oh. With a summoning spell. But the treasure will have protections against that, won't it?”

“Yes,” Snape answered. He leant forward and opened the book in his hand, which turned out to be a training journal. It was disguised as an old medical text, but detailed every training session that Harry had done. The page was opened to his exercise in the forest, when he'd been chased by orange balls in the air, and later crashed into a tree.

“Youngest seeker in a century?” Snape asked, and though he had a bit of mocking in his tone, there was also a challenge in his voice.

Harry nodded, before shaking his head.

“I can’t outfly a dragon.”

“You’ve never tried,” Snape countered, and Harry realised that the man was absolutely not joking.

“But that’s!” Harry sputtered, glancing down at the notes of his flying exercise again. “Have you seen a dragon? They’ll rip anything to shreds, burn anything, even when they’re just a baby!”

Snape slowly crossed his arms, and Harry belatedly realised that either he, or Hagrid, were about to get in trouble. Possibly the both of them.

“And where have you seen one?” Snape smoothly asked.

“There’s a picture book in the library,” Harry quickly lied. “But that’s not the point. I don’t want to face a dragon. Can’t I just forfeit?”

Snape sighed as he waved his wand and piled up the breakfast plates.

“No, there is a rather large fine involved in forfeiting,” Snape said. “I have enquired, but it is not something I could ever afford.”

Harry smiled, feeling slightly cheered.

“Thanks for trying,” Harry said.

“Humph. You’ve been in training for more than a year now. Time to make yourself proud, and everyone else nervous.”

Harry laughed, pulling the blanket up around himself again. Snape had a small smile on his own face, a nice one, which looked a bit awkward in the way that meant Snape didn’t smile all that often. At least not without malicious intent.

“Do you really think I can do this, Dad?” Harry asked. “Steal something from a dragon and not get hurt?”

Snape steeped his fingers in front of his face, tapping them against his chin.

“I imagine it will be similar to facing a Basilisk, which you did with little hesitation,” Snape answered, picking up the lesson journal. “Remember that you needn’t win, only survive.”

“Right,” Harry said, grinning and feeling much less overwhelmed. “We must gets our preciousss from the dragonses.”

Harry ducked out of the way just in time to miss getting smacked in the head with the book.

“Be prepared to fly tomorrow morning,” Snape warned, flicking through the journal. “We’ll be practising again.”

“Yes sir,” Harry said. He was much calmer and more relaxed than he had been when he’d first arrived to the dungeons. He stood up from the couch and walked over to the desk, trailing the blanket after him like a cape. Harry had been too preoccupied thinking about the tournament, his fight with Ron, and the Potter Stinks badges to spare even a moment’s thought towards Voldemort’s plan and the mysterious potion. Snape had been busy though, and Harry counted the new number of pins on the map of England. They curved in an upward arch over Peterborough, and Harry knew that the other end of the curve bisected somewhere in Albania.

“Do you think the person that put my name in the Goblet is still at Hogwarts?” Harry suddenly asked.

“Quite possibly,” Snape answered, his voice slightly muffled for not facing Harry. “Apparition is not possible on Hogwarts grounds, but there are a myriad of other ways to carry someone off.”

“Thanks for being reassuring,” Harry muttered.

“ _Which_ is why your tattoo has tracking abilities,” Snape finished.

“But all the tasks take place at Hogwarts, don’t they?” Harry asked, his finger on the map as he automatically searched for Lower Tarrow. It was something he found himself doing every time he found a map of England, as if reminding himself that home was still there.

“Some tasks occur outside the wards of Hogwarts,” Snape said, preoccupied by the book he was reading.

Harry picked up a little red pin from Snape’s desk, drawing it down from the label for Upper Tarrow to where he knew their village was. It wasn’t named again, of course, but Harry had memorized which way the river creek ran, from Upper to Lower, right by their house. He pushed the pin in; quite certain Snape would notice it when he next looked at the map.

…

Harry stood at the gate of the dragon’s pen, feeling inexplicably cold. His brain kicked in a second later, and he realised that he’d been sweating so much in nervousness that he had the chills. No time to worry about that now though. He’d spent the last week and a half with Snape, practicing his flying manoeuvres, and with Hermione practising his summoning spells. It was time to focus on the dragon, not on Mad-eye Moody’s weird conversation with him after he’d told Cedric about the dragons, not on Sirius’ warning about Karkaroff (which Snape had already been quite thorough about), and not on Ron’s stupid attempt to very vaguely warn Harry about the dragons.

It was time to get his treasure. As he stepped into the rocky pen, Harry drowned out the yelling and jeering and screaming of the crowds. His one spell, _accio Firebolt_ , echoed cleanly around the pen, confusing the dragon as it didn’t know where exactly the sound had come from. In the tense moment’s wait for his broom to come to him, Harry allowed himself a quick glance up into the crowds. He found Hermione and Ron quickly, and over in the Professors’ box, his Dad. Snape’s face was carefully blank, which Harry had now learned meant he was either facing danger himself, or that he was worried. Harry smiled, and the smile grew larger as he spotted his broom in the distance, flying toward him.

The tattoo on his finger seemed to pulse with a steady drumming beat, and Harry felt the same burst of excited energy he normally got just before a quidditch game. Snape had reminded him just that morning that in the book, Smaug had been built up as this fierce and dangerous dragon, but quick thinking and good observation had felled it quickly. Harry hopped on his broom, ignoring the cheers of his schoolmates and zoomed around the arena pen, watching very carefully to see what his dragon’s weakness was. Not an empty spot in the armour on its chest, no, but Harry shortly discovered that the dragon was tethered to a chain that appeared to be quite long enough for it to fly, and if Harry could get it airborne, the nest would be open for Harry to take from.

He also discovered that flying over and around it seemed to irritated the dragon, much like a fly in Harry’s face would. He could feel the dragon’s anger, feel the heat of the fire as it chased him, and barely noticed the sting from one of the horns on its tail as he flew too close at one point, though he did let out a nervous laugh. _Dad’s going to kill me if I get hurt_ , Harry thought.

He circled higher above the dragon’s head, cackling and laughing, which vexed the dragon enough that it finally gave an exasperated roar and spread its wings. Harry was impressed for a few seconds, and remembered to dodge at the last moment as the dragon took off toward him. Dropping into a Wronski Feint, Harry zoomed toward the rocky floor of the arena pen, sweeping across at just the right time to skim over the dragon’s nest, and grab an egg.

The volume of the arena cranked itself back up and Harry grinned like a moron as he clutched the golden egg in his hand and flew over the stands, far away from the dragon. He’d done it, and not only that, from the excited yelling of Mr Bagman, he’d been the quickest to get his egg. Snape, in the Professors’ box, still looked mostly unimpressed, but the lines on his face weren’t quite as tight, and as Harry was ushered off to the medical tent, he could feel the steady, reassuring beat of the drum in his tattoo still pulsing.


	12. Chapter 12

The rain battered against Snape as he walked along the narrow pavement, stepping over the deepest of the cracks, but ignoring the small ones. Their road had been in need of repair for nearly fifteen years, and weeds had long grown between the stones.

The security wards did not cover the alleyway between his old childhood home and the neighbours, but the house wall was, and he touched that lightly with his hand as he passed. Not more than a moment later he was at the front door, standing passively with his arms crossed in the rain, as a face scowled at him through the cracked glass.

“What have you done this time?”

The voice was rough from years of smoking, and accusatory from years of despondency.

“Hello Mum,” Snape answered, stepping into the tiny hallway past her.

She slammed the door behind him, causing the knickknacks on the shelf in front of the stairs to rattle.

“If you’ve come to warn me about me life, you can just put a sock in it and save your breath,” Eileen warned, following Snape through the sitting room and into the kitchen.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Snape sarcastically responded. “Where’s Dad?”

“Upstairs, puffin’ away, inn’he?” she huffed, watching as Snape dug a box out from the cupboard under the stairs. The dull yellow kitchen was dingy and out-dated, the effects from years of smoking and cooking in small quarters. The gloomy rain pattering against the window kept the room dim, as the two bulb overhead light no longer had the power to keep the shadows of the room at bay.

“Avoiding you?” Snape conversationally asked, searching through an old box of tin toys for something.

“Likely,” Eileen answered, as she studied him. “You want food? Skinny as a rail again you are.”

“I am the same weight I was when you last saw me,” Snape answered, reaching into his pocket for something. He withdrew an envelope that was far too large to have fit in the pocket it came from, and gave it to his mother, before turning back to the cupboard.

 Eileen opened the envelope and her eyes softened as a stack of reddish-maroon fifty pound notes revealed itself.

“Pickpocketing?” Eileen asked, her sarcastic tone slipping with a bit of gratitude.

“Prestidigitation,” Snape smirked, giving the same answer he always did. He could hear her counting the money quietly, before placing it in the old tobacco tin atop the fridge. He usually gave around a thousand pounds to his parents every two or three months, and while his mother pretended that they were only taking the charity to take the ‘evidence of pickpocketing’ out of Snape’s hands, Snape pretended that the chunk of his pay packet wasn’t an apology for what he’d done in his youth.

“Ah,” he said, and the moment was gone as quickly as it had come. He unfolded himself from the cupboard door, holding up a small male action figure. It was not Superman, nor Spiderman, nor even Batman, but instead the figure of a Death Eater. Once Snape put it on the floor and cancelled the spell on it, the figure rose to its normal height. It was a shop mannequin with a uniform, and Snape started pulling the clothes off.

“Who’s that then?” his mother asked, dumping three heaping spoonful’s of instant coffee mix into a mug.

“Evan Rosier’s uniform,” Snape answered, folding up the clothes and placing the mask on top.

“Rosier?” Eileen asked, as she searched the cluttered and small kitchen counter for sugar. “Been in hiding, has he? No one’s heard from ‘im since the first war.”

“Hiding six feet under,” Snape clarified, stuffing the clothes into a bag and banishing the mannequin. “Killed by Alastor Moody.”

“Oh, and you’re going to pretend to be him?” Eileen asked, giving Snape a rough look. “Fancy trick, that is, bringin’ a man back from the dead. None o’ the rest of us can do it.”

“Plenty did it when the Dark Lord fell,” Snape answered. “And I need only fool idiots.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, trying to assess his intent, but Snape had long ago learned to hide what he was up to.

“You think he’s comin’ back,” Eileen stated, crossing her arms over her threadbare apron. She was still holding onto the hot coffee mug, and Snape could see the patch of skin by her elbow turning red from the heat.

“Don’t tell me you can’t feel it,” Snape snapped. His expression softened in apology, but no words were said. Neither of his parents had fled during the first war, and Snape hadn’t returned home early enough the night they’d been targeted. His mother had bounced back, but his father…

“Oh, I see the signs,” Eileen answered, not moving. “An’ once again I see you rushing in there head first. What happened to Dumbledore, boy?”

Snape turned out of the kitchen, moving back into the front room and skimming his fingers along the bookcase.

“Dumbledore’s trust in me is even stronger than it was ten years ago,” Snape commented, pulling out a book on genealogy.

“You got that look on your face like you’re going to break it,” Eileen said, standing by the stairs.

Snape dropped his head forward a little, before moving it to the side and cracking the back of his neck.

“And you still haven’t forgiven me for breaking yours, Mum,” Snape said, turning to face her. It was like staring down the Headmaster again, back when he’d been a boy and in trouble once more.

“You didn’t break me trust,” Eileen said, nodding once at her son. “You broke me expectations.”

Snape rolled his eyes, slipping back into his normal sarcastic self.

“Don’t start.”

He walked across the room and to the front door, making sure his overcoat was buttoned up all the way.

“You should settle down. Have a family,” she continued, ignoring his warning. “S’not as bad as you think.”

“I’m not even going to consider responding to that,” Snape said. He leant down quickly and pecked his mother on her forehead, keeping the book in his hand held tight.

“Maybe after the war. Goodbye, Mother,” Snape cheerily said, narrowly avoiding a very minor hex as he slipped out the door. He waited for thirty seconds before nudging his head back in.

“You will leave, when he returns?”

For a second her stern façade fell, and Snape saw the mother he remembered as a child, the one to give him quiet comfort when his primary school classmates bullied him. A shuffling noise came from upstairs, as his father moved about in the bedroom very slowly and with the aid of a strong cane.

“Yeah,” his mother answered. “Said we would, didn’t we?”

Snape nodded, and the tension on his shoulders relaxed a little. He knocked on the doorframe with his knuckle, hating the awkward seconds of goodbye that always happened when he stopped in at home.

“I won’t be late next time,” Snape finally said, stepping out of the house and leaving before he could hear his mother’s response.

…..

There weren’t a lot of places one could meet and have a discussion without being suspicious. It was one of the things Snape had learned early on in his career as a Death Eater and then spy, and to this date he still disliked the plethora of tiny cafes he normally found himself in. The sitting, the waiting, the playing with his tea spoon as he listened to the important parts of the conversation and tried to not let other patrons hear anything. This time the meeting place had been his idea though, and he’d chosen a park in Newcastle upon Tyne.

Snape had arrived early, dressed in all black, with the outer robe of Evan Rosier’s uniform, and with his features disguised to look like Rosier. He had the mask in a bag he carried, but Snape didn’t expect to need it for longer than the few second’s recognition to confirm who he said he was.

Selecting a bench not far from the rugby pitch, Snape leaned against the tree just to the left of it and waited. His eyes roamed over as much of the park he could see, though they lingered on a shadowed patch of trees that Snape expected Pettigrew to apparate to. On the pitch in front of him a rather loud match was on going, though it was only loud due to the parents at the side lines. It looked to be a group of young teens, Snape suspected, as they all seemed to take no issue with running about on the cold, mucky ground.

Snape allowed himself a moment’s thanks that Potter had no desire to participate in such Muggle group sports. He knew he would have attended anyway, stood on the side lines and glared down any other parent that tried to engage him in conversation as he watched the little idiot try to kill himself on the field. Thankfully, Potter was skilled enough to be completely taken in by quidditch instead, which was something Snape didn’t mind watching, and which he was able to openly use magic to fix any grievous injuries.

Just over the dull cheering from a goal scored, Snape heard the painfully obtrusive sound of poorly performed apparition coming from the patch of trees. Pettigrew then emerged, looking worse for wear than he normally did.

“Good lord, it’s been thirteen years, could you not have purchased a new set of clothes?” Snape cuttingly asked, as Pettigrew approached.

“You’re rather finely dressed for one who’s supposed to be dead,” Pettigrew sneered, seemingly unbothered about the remark of his personal grooming habits.

“Oh, but one shouldn’t believe all the rumours,” Snape answered, still leaning against the tree with his arms crossed. “Moody’s mad enough to believe that he’d killed the queen if he saw a crown fall.”

Pettigrew let out a horrid squeal of a laugh that fortunately only lasted a few seconds.

“So it’s just you then?” Pettigrew said, and Snape immediately recognised the test.

“And the lot in Azkaban,” Snape answered, pushing himself up and walking closer to Pettigrew. “Who, I have little doubt, are proudly loyal for serving their time. I find, however, that we are much more useful to the Dark Lord outside of prison.”

“And you’re ready to come back,” Pettigrew asked, his eyes beady and sharp, and his expression more than a little rat-like. Snape had no doubt that his presence would be reported to the Dark Lord, and he was very careful to keep himself in character as Rosier. It was very likely that Pettigrew would downplay Snape’s next offer, in order to remain in the best graces of the Dark Lord.

Snape curbed the intense desire he had to reach out and snap the man’s neck.

“I never left,” Snape silkily said. “Instead, I have been researching, and I am given to understand that you are in the need of a potions brewer.”

“Didn’t know you could brew,” Pettigrew said, his wand hand twitching as he looked out over the field.

“But you’re still here, which leads me to believe that you are more in need than you’d like to admit,” Snape concluded.

“Our last brewer may have defected in the last war,” Pettigrew allowed.

“Fortunate, for me,” Snape answered. He opened the bag he was carrying, leaving it open wide enough for Pettigrew to see the mask inside.

“Wolfsbane. I’m certain you can find a test subject to confirm that I brew with precision. I shall await your owl, to this post box address,” Snape said, slipping a piece of parchment to Pettigrew with the potion phial.

“Wolfsbane?” Pettigrew muttered, seemingly to himself. 

“I assume time is of the essence?” Snape asked, already bored of the meeting.

“Not exactly,” Pettigrew imperiously said, as if he were announcing the schedule of royalty. “Spring is the time of regrowth, not late autumn.”

Snape raised his eyebrow, before looking around at the bitter bleakness and brown of everything around them. The dirt ground was dry and crumbled, and the grass hung limply in patches, just waiting for the first covering of snow.

“Until winter, then,” Snape said, nodding his head and stepping back toward the tree. There was a small portkey in his pocket for Snape to return to Hogwarts, as he couldn’t apparate directly to the school, and apparition could sometimes be traced.

“The test first,” Pettigrew said, holding up the bottle and shaking it.

Snape scowled, irritated that his mind realised Pettigrew’s importance while being alive, and that it once again overrode his baser desire to simply dispose of him.

 

…..

 

Harry crept along the edge of the wall as he led Ron and Hermione further into the dungeons. On the Marauder’s Map was a small room marked ‘Music’, and it was too small to be a classroom, so Harry had wondered if it was a room for practicing music. If so, he hoped that something in there could tone down the screeching of the egg and reveal the clue.

“How far is it, Harry?” Hermione whispered, ignoring Ron. She was still angry with him about his attempt at asking her to the Yule ball, but had wanted out of the tower and so had followed them.

Almost everyone was still upstairs in the Great Hall, enjoying the remnants of Christmas breakfast, but the dungeons had an uncanny echo and in the silence they were keeping as quiet as they could.

“Just down past the potions storage cupboard,” Harry whispered back. Harry gave a quick glance to the map once more, blinking in confusion at the label. “Why is Mr Crouch here?”

“Crouch?” Ron asked, leaning forward to look at the map. “On Christmas?”

“Not only him,” Hermione said, pointing at another label approaching from the kitchens. “Igor Karkaroff’s here too.”

“And they’re coming this way,” Harry said, folding the map quickly and shoving it into his pocket. “Time to re-route.”

They’d just managed to slip into a room that Harry hoped was empty, when Professor Moody’s voice suddenly boomed down the hall.

“The very coward himself,” Moody said, his tone much more malicious than Harry remembering it being when Moody had turned Malfoy into a ferret.

“I am no coward,” Karkaroff hissed, his voice echoing down the hallway.

“No, that’s right,” Moody scoffed. “You’re simply a helpful informant.”

Harry, Ron, and Hermione all turned to look at each other. Informant? Ron mouthed the word ‘tournament’, but Harry shook his head. Somehow, he knew it was something bigger than the tournament.

“I’ll be watching you, Igor,” Moody warned, the clunk of his wooden staff booming down the hall as it hit the stone. “And I will make sure you pay for what you’ve done.”

Hermione suddenly sneezed into her sleeve, muffling most of the sound but allowing just enough that the conversation between Karkaroff and Moody fell silent.

“Sorry,” Hermione whispered, and they frantically looked for another way out of the oddly bare little room they’d ended up in. The clanking of the cane against the stone told Harry that Moody wouldn’t be too far off, and all three knew that was not the sort of conversation any student was meant to overhear.

“Dammit,” Harry said, pushing against one wall with his free hand. “There has to be a way out.”

Neither of the other walls had any sort of mark or door in them though, and just as Harry pulled his hand away from the wall, he noticed that wood had begun to form beneath his handprint.

The egg was tossed to Ron, and Harry quickly slapped both hands against the wall. Lines shot out from under his fingers and a door formed within seconds.

“In, in!” Hermione urgently whispered.

All three squeezed into the door at the same time, the clanking sound growing louder and louder, and Harry quietly shut the door behind him. He hoped it would disappear into the wall, but had no way of checking.

“Away from the door,” Harry whispered. “Moody can see through it.”

They all took a step back, staring at the door as if expecting Moody and Karkaroff to burst through. After a few moments it was apparent that they wouldn’t, and Harry let out a big breath.

“Close one,” Ron said, with a grin.

He handed the egg back to Harry and they stepped away from the door, properly looking at the room they’d ended up in. It was a very fancy indoor bath, though Harry likened it more to a pool house of sorts. In the middle of the room was a giant circular pool, with what appeared to be submerged seating under water. Along the wall to their right was a long bench filled with stacked towels, and well-lit stained glass windows that had mermaids in them. To the left were rattan lounge chairs and back wall had a small plain door, and what, oddly, looked to be a beverage refreshment area.

“What is this place?” Ron asked, looking around and up at the domed ceiling.

“Some sort of private bath, likely,” Hermione answered, standing next to Ron. “We probably shouldn’t be here.”

“We’re never where we should be,” Harry said, walking up toward the pool. “I wonder how warm…”

His foot caught on a tiny rough edge of tile floor, and Harry tripped forward. The egg tumbled out of his hands and all three watched with a grimace as it bounced at an odd angle and plopped into the pool.

“Blimey,” Harry muttered, sprawled out on the floor.

“Bad luck, mate,” Ron said, standing safely back from the edge of the pool.

Harry crawled over to the edge and peered in, spotting the egg submerged at the bottom of the pool, which fortunately didn’t seem to be that deep.

“Guess I’ll have to go get it,” Harry said, standing up and tugging off his robe.

“And while you do so,” a deep voice said, from the other side of the pool, “your two friends can explain why it is _always_ you three getting into places you shouldn’t be.”

Professor Snape stood with his arms crossed, at the plain door against the far wall. He did not look at all impressed to find Harry, Ron, and Hermione in the private pool-bath room.

“Go on, Potter,” Snape said, after Harry hadn’t moved for a moment. “I _know_ you can swim.”

“Rats,” Harry muttered, pulling off his jumper. He took a second to be very grateful that he was wearing boxer shorts, as he didn't want to jump in with just pants. Hermione was one of his best friends, but there were just some things he didn’t want her to see.

The room was silent as he pulled off his layers, as Hermione had tried to explain how they'd ended up there, but Snape had stopped her.

“Hang on,” Harry said, pulling off his socks. “Can't I just use a summoning spell to get it?”

Snape didn't move, though he did tilt his head slightly to the side.

“No. I think perhaps you should go into the water after it,” Snape answered, though it came out more like an order.

“Git,” Ron grumbled.

“Ron,” Hermione hissed, watching as Harry stepped into the pool and under the water, in one fluid movement.

Ron was watching Snape though, who still hadn’t moved from the wall.

“You’re not actually angry we’re here,” Ron said, before slapping his hand against his mouth, as if the words had slipped out on their own.

Before Snape could answer, Harry popped back up out of the water and shook his head, spraying water droplets everywhere.

“I can hear the clue!” Harry said, grinning. “You have to listen to it under water.”

“What was it?” Hermione demanded, forgetting Snape and stepping over to Harry’s pile of over clothes. “What’s the next task?”

“I’ve no idea,” Harry shrugged, still excited. “I need to listen again.”

He turned to go back to where the egg was, underwater, before glancing back at Ron.

“Thanks for getting us out of trouble, mate!” Harry happily said, dipping under again.

Ron looked up, confused, and saw that Snape was no longer there.

 

….

Harry felt like an overdressed tart, and tugged ineffectually at his bowtie. He'd done the opening dance, and smiled for the cameras, and now just wanted to go back to the dorms. Hermione looked like she was having fun, and her dress was quite nice, but Harry found the whole thing boring. It was Christmas, after all, and he should be spending the time eating food until he was stuffed and playing with the new things he'd gotten for Christmas. Ron had given him a practise snitch that he wanted to try, and Snape had given him new clothes, a book, and some odd green slimy thing in a jar that he absolutely did not want to know about.

“God you two are dull,” Seamus suddenly announced, plonking himself in the seat across from them. “Didn't get to take Cinderella to the ball?”

Ron scowled, but his focus was on Krum and Hermione, and he'd been scowling most of the evening.

“The twins are in the crowd somewhere,” Harry said, shrugging.

“Have a few of these, then,” Seamus said, grinning as he held out a bag of gummy bears.

“What's in them?” Harry asked suspiciously. Seamus had been experimenting with food since they'd first come to Hogwarts, and he didn't trust his dorm mate in the least.

“Gummy bears!” Seamus said, affronted. But he had a sparkle in his eye, and Harry knew that meant 'do not consume what you are being offered.'

Finally, a grin broke out on Seamus' face.

“You're getting paranoid, Potter,” Seamus said, and popped a gummy bear in his mouth. “They are gummies, but there's firewhiskey in them. Leave them to soak in it overnight, and they become alcohol-infused.”

Ron broke his gaze away from Hermione and stared at Seamus with a grin.

“You got that past the teachers?”

“Sure,” Seamus said, popping another one in his mouth. “They look like regular gummies. McGonagall didn’t even ask.”

Harry laughed, looking over to where McGonagall was dancing with Dumbledore, wine glass in hand.

“You should go into business with Fred and George,” Ron told Seamus, taking a few gummies.

“No, you really shouldn’t,” Harry corrected.

“I wouldn’t say no,” Seamus boasted. “Besides, the way old Moody’s always sipping on his bottle flask, I’d say I’m safe.”

“Yeah, Harry said, shifting his gaze to the front of the room, where most of the teachers had gathered to supervise. Moody was sitting on a chair to the side, tapping his good leg along with the rhythm of the song, and smiling. Not two minutes later Harry saw him take a long gulp out of the bottle flask from his jacket pocket, and twist his face up into a grimace.

“Every hour?” Harry asked, studying Moody. He realised that the staring would be rather obvious quite shortly, and calmly swept his gaze over the rest of the room. He spotted Snape easily, dressed in all black and standing next to a rather brightly outfitted Dumbledore.

“Yeah,” Seamus answered, clearly uninterested. “Dean and I counted in class once.”

A new song started and Seamus quite quickly leapt out of the chair, skipping toward the dance floor.

“Hey Ron,” Harry said, watching the melee of students dancing to The Weird Sisters.

“What?” Ron asked, scowling at Krum again.

“What tastes awful and has effects that only last for an hour?”

Ron’s expression turned completely confused.

“Poison?”

Harry shook his head, watching a shimmering blur storm over to where they were sitting.

“And shouldn’t be mixed with cat hair,” Harry clarified. “Hello Hermione.”

“Harry,” Hermione greeted, before turning a flash of fury on Ron. “Will you stop glaring at me!”

“I'm not the one who went to the dance with Viktor bleeding Krum!” Ron argued back, instantly forgetting what Harry had mentioned.

Hermione huffed with irritation, stamping her foot on the floor and just missing Harry's own foot. He shot up to his feet to avoid further risk, and watched Hermione storm off. Ron quickly followed, and Harry decided to go along as well as he was bored out of his mind at the dance.

“Hermione!” Ron called, catching up to her as she stomped up the stairs toward Gryffindor tower. “I don't get why you'd go with him, instead of me!”

Ron's face turned brilliantly red as she spun to glare at him, and he quickly corrected.

“With one of us. Harry or I.”

Hermione looked on the verge of bursting into tears, or throwing her purse at Ron. She chose the latter, and Ron only just ducked in time to avoid getting nailed in the side of the head.

“Fine!” Hermione huffed, and now the tears started to escape from the corners of her eyes. Harry stood still behind Ron, half scared/half worried, and completely unsure of what to do to help.

“Do you want to know why I went with Viktor?” she demanded, her voice breaking. She didn't wait for Ron's verbal answer, but he'd probably just stared dumbly and nodded, if Harry knew his best friend as well as he thought he did.

“Because I was tired of waiting for you to ask me.”

She barely waited for her words to sink in, before letting loose a small little whimper of frustration and fleeing back upstairs. The noise made Harry feel horribly guilty, and he wasn't even the one to have had disappointed her.

“Go,” Harry said, picking up the purse and giving it to Ron. His friend looked both stricken and confused.

“But...” Ron said.

“She forgave you for making fun of her in first year, when she was all alone,” Harry said, shrugging. “But there’s no troll to save you this time.”

Ron nodded and took up the stairs, two at a time, nearly tripping at the top.

Harry shook his head as he watched Ron race down the upper balcony hall. He didn't want to return to the tower so quickly, but didn't really have anywhere else to go. The professors were all at the dance, supervising, so he knew the rest of the castle would be quiet. Deciding to eventually head down to Snape's, Harry took the long way to the dungeons and started toward the kitchen.

Even the portraits were mostly empty as he passed, as the majority of the painted people had moved to the Great Hall for the ball. The walls were warm around him, and as Harry approached the kitchen he could smell the cloves and cinnamon and apples that went into the hot apple cider served with Christmas dinner. Overwhelmed with an urge to have some, and burrow in Snape's flat with a good book to enjoy the rest of Christmas, Harry picked up his pace toward the kitchens.

Just as he turned the last corner, Harry nearly stumbled into Professor Trelawney. He heard the sound of clinking glass bottles as she stumbled, and Harry fought back a grin as he watched her try to keep hold of the wine bottles.

“Mr Potter!” Trelawney gasped, staring at him as she straightened up and tried to look imposing. “But why are you not at the ball?”

“Feeling a bit peckish,” Harry lied, pretending not to notice her hiding another bottle in her robe pocket.

She gave him a confused look and Harry slowly added to his statement.

“The kitchens...they're down here.”

“Yes, of course, Potter,” Trelawney nodded. “But you...”

Before she could finish the sentence, her arm shot out to brace herself against the wall near Harry's head. Her eyes lost their focus, and her head turned up at an awkward angle.

_“The end is set before the beginning...in the time of the shortest night...when the one marked as the Dark Lord's equal meets the power of he with the greatest story never told...”_

“Professor?” Harry asked, stumbling back from Trelawney.

_“The power of he with the greatest story never told...”_

Her eyes suddenly snapped up and Harry jumped a little, waiting to see if she'd say anything else.

“Are...are you alright?” Harry asked, slightly concerned, but really wanting to get away from her. She'd acted like this once before when speaking of the prophecy of Wormtail's return the year before, and Harry was quite certain that he wasn't ready to hear another prophecy.

“Potter? What are you doing down here?”

Just like last time, Harry thought, with a sinking feeling.

“Just going to get a drink,” Harry answered, and before she could say anything else, Harry slipped into the kitchens.

Fifteen minutes later, he had used his key and was in Snape's flat, staring at the crackling fire in the fireplace. A scrap piece of paper was on the coffee table, onto which Harry had written every single word of what Trelawney had said. He still hadn't a clue what it meant. His hot apple cider was still steaming though, and Harry held tightly to the warm mug as he thought.

Who was the one marked as the Dark Lord’s equal? Harry’s scar on his forehead was certainly the most prominent mark from Voldemort left on anyone, but it hardly made Harry equal to Voldemort. Although, hadn’t Dumbledore said that some of Voldemort’s powers were transferred to Harry that night? At least the Parseltongue had been.

Harry shook his head and stood up off the couch, moving to the other side of the coffee table where the fireplace was. The flat was fairly warm, but Harry was feeling tired and had a bit of a chill. It was only half nine though, so still a bit early for both Snape to return from the dance and for Harry to go to bed.

Staring down at his clothes, Harry suddenly felt itchy in the dress clothes and wanted to change. He didn’t have any clothing in the dungeon flat, but Snape did. It only took him a few moments to find a new-looking pair of pyjama bottoms and an old t-shirt to wear, and then Harry was back in front of the fire.

He’d decided it was more than likely that he was the marked one Trelawney was talking about, but it still didn’t explain ‘he with the greatest story never told.’ The grammar of the sentence confused him, and he wrote it down on the scrap paper several times as he tried to work it out. Someone who was mute? Someone unpopular? Someone who didn’t know what powers they had? Or maybe someone who did, and who didn’t want recognition for it.

Harry heard movement from Snape’s office, and put the paper down. Snape would be able to figure it out. Snape was smart enough.

“Did you honestly think no one would notice the youngest champion leaving the ball?” Snape asked, sweeping into the room and working on unbuttoning his jacket.

“I figured you would,” Harry replied, looking up from where he was sitting cross-legged in front of the fire. “It was boring. And it was a good thing I left, because I ran into Professor Trelawney.”

“Literally?” Snape asked, raising an eyebrow. The jacket was finally removed and hung on a hanger by the front door.

“Almost. Made a lot of noise; she was carrying some bottles.”

“No doubt,” Snape replied, with a sly smirk.

“I think she told another prophecy,” Harry continued, and he watched the smirk slip from Snape’s face.

“Another?” Snape asked, interest laced into his voice, along with a note of caution.

“Last year she told me one about Pettigrew returning to Voldemort,” Harry explained, flexing his toes toward the fire. “This is what she said tonight.”

He plucked the paper lightly off the coffee table, as if it did not contain words that had bemused him for the entire night since hearing them.

Snape took the paper, his lips moving silently as he read the words over and over, pacing into the kitchen.

“Dad?” Harry called, knowing Snape could hear him behind the kitchen wall. “Who is the one marked as Voldemort’s equal?”

There was a moment of absolute silence in the flat, and Harry couldn’t even hear any sounds of Snape moving in the kitchen. Silence like that wasn’t good, Harry knew, especially as Snape never hesitated to comment on something when he felt it was warranted.

Snape came back into the sitting room, holding the paper in his hand and studying Harry, down on the floor. Snape was still dressed up in his teaching clothes, as he’d been wearing at the ball, and he looked bloody imposing.

“You are.”

Harry felt his stomach twist uncomfortably, and he stared at the fire. Two small salamanders were shifting about in the white wood at the base of the fire, and they stopped scuttling when they felt Harry’s eyes on them.

“That’s not the first prophecy she’s made about me, is it?” Harry asked.

Snape peered down at him, his expression telling Harry that Snape knew the answer, but wished to see exactly how much Harry knew before revealing anything.

“Perhaps not. Why would you think so?”

Harry shrugged, before answering.

“Last year, when she warned me about Pettigrew coming back to serve his master, I told Professor Dumbledore. And he said something like it being the second real prediction she’s ever made.”

Harry looked back up at Snape. “And that, well. He should offer her a pay raise.”

Snape rolled his eyes with such exaggeration that Harry thought it might cause Snape a headache.

“Naturally, he would be happy at that. The first prediction was that the Dark Lord would mark you as his equal,” Snape said. “And we’ve all noticed the result.”

Harry put his hand up to his forehead, covering the stupid scar. Snape started to unbutton his shirt, and walked into his bedroom area.

“Is that all it said?” Harry asked. He’d spent enough time with Snape now to know that the man, while he didn’t really lie to Harry, didn’t seem to mind withholding information. Which, Harry thought, was technically different from lying.

“I would think you’d be more concerned about the second task, and what sort of feat you’ll have to pull for it,” Snape answered, still in his bedroom.

Withholding information then, Harry thought, nodding to himself. He made a mental note to ask Dumbledore later, about any prophecies or predictions about himself.

“I know what it means,” Harry called, checking his apple cider mug and finding it sadly empty. “It means I’m going to get wet.”

Snape emerged from his room, changed into the more relaxed clothing he normally wore around his flat, and walked past the chesterfield to get to the washroom.

“But _why_ will you be getting wet?” Snape pointed out. “And shall I assume from the theft of those clothes that you will be spending the night here?”

Harry looked down at his clothes and then back up to Snape, hoping that he was making guilty-looking puppy eyes. He’d seen Dudley do it thousands of times, but Harry had never really learned how.

“Please?”

Snape waved his hand with slight irritation, as if he didn’t know why he put up with Harry. The door shut firmly behind him, so he didn’t see Harry’s smile.

Snape did have a point though, all he knew about the second task was that something would be taken, and that he was going to have to swim. Humming to himself, to catch the rhythm of the clue, Harry started to recite.

_Come seek us where our voices sound,_   
_We cannot sing above the ground,_   
_And while you're searching ponder this;_   
_We've taken what you'll sorely miss,_   
_An hour long you'll have to look,_   
_And to recover what we took,_   
_But past an hour, the prospect's black,_   
_Too late it's gone, it won't come back._

“I know it’s the merpeople,” Harry then said, still sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace. The golden egg was still upstairs in his room, but he had memorised the clue inside it. “Hey, why was I able to get into that fancy bath thing?”

“Because it’s set to my wards,” Snape answered through the door. “The room belongs to whomever is Head of Slytherin house.”

“Oh,” Harry said, thinking.

“You’ve been there long enough. Get away from the fire and leave some heat for me,” Snape grumbled, coming out of the washroom.

“What exactly are they going to take?” Harry asked, ignoring Snape’s order. “The merpeople.”

“Something you’ll sorely miss,” Snape parroted back, nudging Harry out of the way as he passed. Harry sprawled out on the floor, so he still had plenty of heat from the fire, but wasn’t blocking it.

“A person?”

“I would assume so,” Snape answered. “I can't see you risking your life for a text book.”

“Hah,” Harry said, closing his eyes. He rolled to the left a moment later, as Snape nearly stepped on him. “You're doing that on purpose, to text my reflexes.”

“No, I fully intend to step on you,” Snape answered, heading back for the washroom.

Harry squinted with one eye open and saw Snape put some sort of foamy potion in his hair.

“What's that?” Harry asked.

“Student repellent,” Snape dryly responded.

Harry rolled his eyes before shutting them again. He was lying on thick carpeting in front of the fire, absolutely relaxed. It was an odd feeling, as it was one he'd never had at the Dursleys', even in his cupboard. There was always some sort of tenseness, even when he was sleeping, that Harry couldn't quiet figure out. Maybe it was a form of anxiety? Harry pulled his arm inward as Snape almost stepped on his hand, keeping his eyes closed.  Or perhaps it was just always part of him that was on guard.

He sat up suddenly with his eyes open, misjudging the distance of the coffee table and nearly braining himself on the edge. That was it. Harry felt safe in Snape's flat, both of them, and he could fully relax because he knew he wouldn't be attacked there. Oh sure, Snape was sarcastic and seemed mean, but Harry knew it was mostly an act. Unlike the Dursleys', when Snape said something mean to Harry, it was to teach him a lesson. Not to remind him that he was worthless.

Another thought occurred to Harry, a much more troubling thought, and he regretfully left the fire to go into the kitchen. Snape was standing in front of the kettle, his now potion-greasy hair tied back as he measured enough of the special hot chocolate Harry had given him to make two cups.  He was wearing what he normally wore at night in the summer; pyjama trousers, a shirt, and his bathrobe, and looked to be so much younger than his Professor image.

Harry looked down at his own borrowed clothing, the pyjama pants folding under his feet at the bottom like slippers, because Snape was taller than him and the clothes were longer.

“Dad?” Harry asked, standing by the tiny kitchen table and running his finger along the edge. “What if they take you?”

Snape flicked the kettle on and looked up at Harry with a considering look.

“And why would they take me instead of Mr Weasley or Miss Granger?” Snape quietly asked.

A steady stream of reasons passed through Harry's mind, flashing in front of his eyes like ticker tape. _You gave me a home. You gave me my own clothes. You're training me to survive. You gave me a room. You actually care, that I do more than just fight Voldemort._

Harry blinked and shook his head, before shrugging.

“No reason,” he answered.

“John,” Snape continued, but Harry interrupted him.

“There's no reason. Ron and I are friends again, so it'll probably be him,” Harry said, smiling a little. “Or Hermione, but she’d put up quite the fight. Do you think I should warn them?”

One of Snape's eyes constricted a little, as if he were trying to focus on something with one eye through a microscope.

“The Headmaster will not allow me to be taken,” Snape said, instead of answering Harry. “He will not risk your guardianship being found out. Not now.”

“What do you mean, not now?” Harry asked, confused. “What’s so important about now?”

The kettle clicked off, but it took Snape a few second’s delay before he started to pour the water.

“Your godfather is applying for guardianship, _in absentia_.”

Dread filled Harry’s stomach, and he could feel that panic wasn’t far off.

“He can’t do that, can he?” Harry asked, his voice a slightly higher pitch than normal.

“He doesn’t even have the right forms,” Snape said, a small sneer on his face. “And I would like to see him try.”

“But he can’t, right?” Harry asked again. “Dumbledore would stop him too?”

“Harry Potter,” Snape said, putting the kettle down and turning to face Harry. He slowly crossed his arms and his face set into a very stern look.

“I have spent a year and a half training you, feeding you, clothing you, looking after your welfare, and planning out how to prevent the Dark Lord from coming after you. I do not regret a single moment since my decision to take you in, however, darker days are to come, and if Sirius Black thinks that he can win some sort of paper war against me, he is about to sorely find out how wrong he is.”

Harry had never had anyone speak so strongly about him, and he didn’t know whether to laugh or maybe hug the man out of gratitude. He settled for a large smile, and nodded at Snape.

“Thanks, sir.”

Snape hummed slightly in agreement, and handed Harry a hot mug.

“The new prophecy may turn out to be more informative than you thought,” Snape said. “Fetch the pensieve, and we’ll look together.”

“Okay, Dad,” Harry said, and all the dread he’d been feeling moments earlier vanished. Once again, Harry remembered that he was not fighting this alone.

The pensieve was sitting on Snape’s desk, next to a rather oddly wrapped parcel that was addressed to someone named ‘Evan Rosier’, and had the word breakable all over it. Harry didn’t recognize the name, but he did remember that he’d originally wanted to talk to Snape about Professor Moody. He couldn’t think of why though, and hoped that the reason would come to him later.

It did, at around four in the morning when he blearily woke from an odd dream. Harry wrote the word ‘polyjuice’ down on the back of a serviette from the kitchen table, stumbling back to the couch and dropping the serviette on the coffee table. He didn’t notice that he’d missed, and as the writing was all but illegible, a house elf tossed it in the fire the next morning as the flat was cleaned. Harry was up in the Great Hall eating breakfast while the note burned, laughing at Seamus and his hangover, and had completely pushed it from his mind.


	13. Chapter 13

Seamus was in really poor form at breakfast on Boxing Day. Harry didn’t have much sympathy for him, but at least Harry wasn’t the one causing as much noise as possible to bother Seamus. Neville wasn’t either, though he did laugh a little when Dean started drumming on the table with his hands.

“I hate you all,” Seamus groaned, draining a glass of pumpkin juice.

“You’re the one that made the gummies,” Dean reminded him.

“You’re not taking the piss out of Harry for coming back at fuck me o’clock in the morning,” Seamus argued, his voice rather weak. “Oi, Potter! Where were you all night?”

“Trying to figure out the clue for the next task,” Harry easily lied. “Christmas miracle, and all.”

“Tosser,” Seamus muttered, resting his head on the table. It shot up a moment later, after Dean resumed his drumming.

“How’d things go with Hermione last night?” Harry asked, keeping his voice quiet as he nabbed another rasher of bacon.

Ron paused with his mug up to his face.

“She’s still angry,” Ron answered. Hermione wasn’t down yet, but Ginny was and Harry knew that Ron was afraid his sister would report anything he said.

“Well yeah,” Harry said. “But how angry?”

Ron took a long drink of pumpkin juice, before pulling a face.

“She said I could have another chance,” Ron said, swirling his finger in the juice cup. “Ugh, there’s a hair in my juice.”

Harry, who’d been drinking his own juice, spat it out across the table.

“Oh, gross,” Seamus complained, pushing his mostly empty plate away from himself with a scowl. “Were you raised by animals?”

“Yes,” Harry distractedly answered, wiping his own face with his serviette. “Ron, remember what I said last night? About what shouldn’t be mixed with…”

A rhythmic banging interrupted Harry’s thoughts, and he quickly recognised the clunk of Professor Moody’s cane on the stone floor.

“Potter!” Moody barked, coming to stand behind Ron’s chair. “Wanted to speak to you about the tournament. Let’s go up to my office.”

Harry looked up at Moody, at the creepy rotating eye that was flying every which way, as if to assess any threat it could.

“Uh, sure, sir,” Harry muttered, unable to think of a way to avoid the meeting that wouldn’t make Moody suspicious.

“Right, gather your things, then,” Moody said, clearly planning to wait and walk with Harry.

Because it was Boxing Day, Harry didn’t actually have much with him, other than his little summer notebook from when he’d first arrived at Snape’s house. Harry picked that up, and as casually as he could, rubbed his thumb against the tattooed mole on the inside of his finger. Stepping up off the bench, Harry glanced for a second up at the teacher’s table, and saw that Snape’s gaze was hard and precisely focused on him. The drumbeat started in the tattoo, and Harry felt only slightly reassured as he followed Moody out of the Hall.

“Figured out the clue yet, Potter?” Moody asked, as he hobbled toward the stairs.

“Yeah, I think so,” Harry said, paying very close attention as they walked. It was morning and sunlight was beaming through the windows, illuminating the portraits in the hall and the few straggling students making their way to breakfast. No one thought it was odd to see Harry walking with Professor Moody.

“And how are you going to win?” Moody asked, leading them down the hall toward the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom.

“Haven’t figured that part out yet, sir,” Harry answered. He wished he had his map with him, so he could check and see if Snape was far behind and also see exactly who was pretending to be Professor Moody.

“Well, I can tell you a snorkel ain’t going to cut it,” Moody said, opening the classroom and letting Harry in. He took a swig of whatever was in his flask as Harry passed, and Harry could feel the drum beat in his tattoo getting stronger.

“I know how to swim,” Harry said, pretending to look around the classroom. He didn’t know why Moody had called him up, but he knew that nothing he’d said should have given away his suspicions. So what did Moody want? Was it really to talk about the tournament? Or was it to see what Harry knew?

“Sure,” Moody replied. “But how long can you hold your breath?”

His one eye was focused directly on Harry, and while the other occasionally glanced about the classroom, it was mostly focused on Harry as well. Harry suddenly remembered Snape warning him about legilimens, and how eye contact was needed, and he felt his palms get clammy as he struggled to hide his thoughts with occlumency.

He still wasn’t very good at it, but Harry was determined to keep his suspicions to himself, until he could talk to Snape.

“A…a few minutes, sir,” Harry replied, images of dwarves and food and chanting in his head.   _Blunt the knives and bend the forks!_ Harry forcefully thought. “Not long enough, but I’ll go to the library and figure something out.”

“See that you do,” Moody said, peering at Harry.  “Have you been running around in the dungeons as of late?”

“No,” Harry said, puzzled and uncomfortable with Moody's stares. “Down where the Slytherins are? I'm not mad.”

Moody gave him a sly smirk, which scrunched up his face horribly and made Harry suspicious. Harry didn’t feel any sort of mental intrusion, but then again, Snape had told him that it was sometimes hard to notice. Harry stood stock still, letting the Hobbit hole take over his mind. _Chip the glasses and crack the plates!_

“There’s more than merpeople down there in the lake, and you’ll be wanting to finish the task as fast as you can,” Moody finished, giving a final nod as he finished his sentence.

_That’s what Bilbo Baggins hates_! Harry mentally chanted, both trying to listen to Moody and obscure his thoughts. It was a lot harder to do when it wasn’t Snape testing him.

“Are you making fun of me, boy?” Moody suddenly asked, leaning against his desk.

“What?” Harry asked, and he winced as the image of Bag End and the dwarves slipped from his mind. Interestingly, he could now feel the drumming in his finger tattoo a bit better, and it was just as steady as before. Snape must be close, Harry knew.

“Screwin’ up your face all funny. Don’t think I don’t know what I look like,” Moody warned.

“No! No, no,” Harry denied, thinking up a quick lie. “No, I wasn’t. We...at the dance last night we had fire whiskey gummy bears. My stomach’s still a bit off.”

After a tense few seconds Moody’s face split into a grin and he laughed loudly, the sound echoing around the Defence classroom walls. Harry noticed in the office doorway, beyond Moody’s shoulder, was a shrouded mirror with moving shadows and Snape’s face in it.

“Good lad,” Moody said. “None of that before the next task, mind.”

“Of course not,” Harry agreed. Before he could think of anything else to say that would allow him to leave, the sharp clicking footprints of someone sounded off in the hallway, and then the doorway.

“Mister Potter,” Snape said, his voice sibilant and dangerous. “I do believe you are to be in detention at the moment, for your little stunt at the dance last night.”

Harry winced. Of course Snape had overheard.

“It’s Boxing Day,” Moody gruffed, and all trace of friendliness was gone. “Hardly time for detentions, _Professor_.”

The look on Snape's face was absolutely withering.

“I hardly think a first year stand in can decide what sort of punishment a Head of House may or may not give out,” Snape growled.

“Funny, I missed the noticed that you'd become Gryffindor's Head of House,” Moody said, quirking his head and giving a nasty smile.

Snape moved into the room, pointing his finger at Moody. His long jacket covered enough of his arm that the only thing that stood out from the black cloth was his bone white finger, looking like some sort of weapon.

“If I remember correctly your cavalier attitude nearly got you murdered in the last war. I'd be very interested to see if it happens again,” Snape hissed. Harry shrunk back a little from the doorway. He'd specifically called Snape in for help, but sometimes forgot how scary the man could be.

Moody wasn't that cowered, however.

“And I'd be interested to see which side of the line you stay on this time,” Moody answered, with a malicious twist to his face.

“I'm certain you would be,” Snape quietly answered. “Potter! My office, now!”

The order was very nearly barked out, and Harry jumped at the sound. He fled quickly for the door, realising that he had to keep up the image of Snape-hating-Harry Potter getting into trouble, though it wasn't that difficult to look a little afraid as Snape seemed to be legitimately mad.

By the time they'd reached the dungeons Harry saw that Snape was still ticked off, and that he was partially because of Harry. What Harry didn't know was _why_.

“Sit!” Snape said, pointing toward his desk chair. Harry walked over to the desk, glancing at the map with the great circle lines on it.

“You're angry with me, aren't you?” Harry asked, sitting in the chair and staring up at Snape.

“Oh very good, Potter,” Snape sarcastically responded, running his fingers raggedly through his hair.

“No,” Harry said, and shook his head when Snape gave him a nasty look. “I'm John. John Snape.”

Snape released a heavy breath, and folded his arms in front of his chest.

“Yes you are. And what did you do today, John Snape, that could have _possibly_ angered your...father?”

“I don't know,” Harry quietly said, staring wide eyed at Snape. “I used the tattoo when I went to Professor Moody’s office.”

“Which you haven't explained,” Snape said, his voice nearly toneless.

“I don't think that's Professor Moody,” Harry said, shifting in the chair. “I think it’s someone using polyjuice, and that's what I meant to tell you last night.”

“And what? You just forgot?” Snape asked, still glaring at Harry. “Someone dangerous and potentially a Death Eater is in the school and you just forgot to tell me?”

“I got distracted,” Harry hurriedly answered, his face heating at the accusations. He'd been trying hard in the training sessions to prove to Snape that he could do this, that he could fight this war, and now he was in trouble for forgetting such a stupid little thing. “I got distracted with the prophecy and I meant to tell you but it slipped my mind. I wrote it down...somewhere, but I didn't see my note this morning.”

Snape started pacing in front of Harry and he was breathing heavily through his nose, causing it to flare.

“You cannot allow a stupid distraction like Christmas to obscure such an important fact!” Snape hissed.

“I didn’t mean to! I meant to tell you as soon as I woke up!”

“But you didn’t! And you might have been killed, because you focused on shiny Christmas toys instead.” Snape snapped.

“No I didn’t!” Harry interrupted, absolutely confused as to why his eyes were watering and trying to stop them. “I was thinking about the prophecy and what I’d heard Trelawney say, to show you in the pensieve.”

Snape huffed out a large breath but Harry could tell he was still very irritated.

“You must learn to store the information in a very important spot in your mind. Somewhere you won’t forget,” Snape warned, shaking his finger at Harry.

“I know,” Harry said, his hands gripping the material at the sides of his trousers. “I’ve never done this spying thing before. I’m sorry.”

“You’re not doing it now,” Snape sternly corrected. “You are not a spy. You may help me, in your lessons here, or when we are relaxing at home. But you are not to go out and problem solve on your own, and you are certainly not to go running headfirst into danger,” Snape snapped, clearly still mad. He threw his arms down in frustration and then summoned a kitchen chair. Sitting directly in front of Harry, Snape leaned forward and put his hands on Harry's knees, ready to lecture Harry further.

“But you do that,” Harry said, interrupting whatever Snape was going to say next. “That's what Trelawney meant, ' _he of the greatest story never told_.' She means you. You're going to rush into this too,” Harry continued, glancing sideways for just a sliver of a second to the package on the kitchen table labelled for Evan Rosier.

“And what makes you so certain that that is my plan?” Snape asked, only slightly calmer than he had been moments earlier.

“Because that's what you did in the first war,” Harry exhaled, hoping Snape wouldn't snap at him like he had in the summer. “You tried to save my Mum, and it didn't work. And now you're keeping me safe.”

“I did not rush into that,” Snape said, sitting back as if to distance himself from Harry. His eyes were darting from side to side, and he looked quite uncomfortable. “I took the coward's way out and asked for someone else's help, instead of going to her myself.”

“You can't be a coward,” Harry said, sure of himself. “Not if you're telling me that I need to ask for help too.”

“I will define myself as I see fit,” Snape sternly told him, without room for negotiation. “And you will be punished for going along with someone you suspect to be dangerous.”

Snape exhaled and hooked his hair behind his ears.

“Though it seems from the conversation he had with you, that Professor Moody believes no one suspects him of being someone else.”

“Yeah,” Harry answered, his mind racing over the conversation. He was more relaxed into the chair, now that he knew Snape's anger had mostly run its course. “Hang on. If you didn't know about him, why did you follow me?”

“Because you activated your tattoo. Which was _your_ idea, as a way to signal you were in danger,” Snape said, speaking to Harry as if he was a stupid child.

“Right,” Harry said. “I...well. Thanks for that.”

Snape huffed and rose from the chair he was in. “Guardian, John. Must I order you to write the definition out a hundred times?”

“No,” Harry quickly answered. Snape seemed focused on something else though, now that he’d gotten his ‘you did something stupid’ point across.

“I knew as well that someone was brewing polyjuice, as the ingredients have been stolen from my cupboards, and if it was you, the wards would not have reported it as a theft.”

“I haven’t stolen anything from you,” Harry said, getting up from the desk chair and moving to the couch, which he considered his spot now.

“…lately,” Snape concluded, searching through the papers on his desk for something.

Harry wasn’t nearly stupid enough to comment any further on the topic of stolen ingredients.

“What should I do if Moody wants to talk to me again? I can’t just avoid a professor,” Harry said, glancing over toward the doorway. He saw movement in the picture that was hanging on the wall – the same house portrait that they had up in Lower Tarrow.

“Use your little map to avoid him, and be on your guard, as you always should be. Use the tattoo, if you must, but only if things have progressed to real danger. Between yourself and the company of your friends, I don’t expect you will have trouble,” Snape answered, his fingers flipping through the pages of a book. “Not yet.”

Harry watched as a figure left the front door of the house and stepped down onto the pavement. The figure seemed to look about for a moment, before returning back inside.

“Not yet?” Harry repeated.

“It’s still winter,” Snape said, baffling Harry. “Now, you may remain here and practice disarming spells, or return to your dormitory.”

Harry remembered the bruises from his last training session, and the fact that it was Boxing Day.

“Dorms,” he answered, popping up off the couch. “I promise I’ll practise my aim though, throwing snowballs at Ron.”

Harry grinned cheekily and headed out, feeling victorious that Snape hadn’t remembered to set a punishment.

 

….

 

“Master...Master the time is coming soon...” Pettigrew's scratchy voice echoed in the sitting room, while the fire in the fireplace crackled behind him.

“Yesss it issss,” another voice said, slithering the s at the end of each word. The voice was coming from a large chair to the left of the fire, shrouded by a blanket. A large snake lay coiled at the feet of the chair.

“Isss the potion ready?”

“Not just yet. It requires another shipment of lethifold leather,” Pettigrew replied, his hands rubbing themselves, much like a rat's would, with his nervousness.

“And the new brewer?” Voldemort asked, his tone sceptical. “You trust that he will not lead me astray?”

“It's Rosier, my lord,” Pettigrew stuttered. “He was loyal to the end in the last war, and only just managed to escape Auror Moody.”

“If you are certain,” Voldemort replied, and there was a very strongly implied warning that if Pettigrew were wrong, he would not live long to regret it.  “The potion must work, and it must use the boy's blood to regenerate me. Do you understand why, Wormtail, my frightened little servant?”

“No, master,” Pettigrew said, and he shook his head fiercely. “And I am not afraid.”

Voldemort's cruel laugh filled the room for a moment, and when he continued, his voice was almost sickly sweet.

“Oh but you are. And you still continue to serve. The boy's blood must be used, Wormtail, because if I am made of the same, his mother's protection will no longer save him.”

The snake at the base of the chair sleepily lifted its head, flicking its tongue out to taste the air, before setting back down.

“Harry Potter, unprotected and all alone,” Voldemort finished.

“Ah!” Harry gasped, shooting upward in bed. The back of his neck was damp and his skin was clammy as he pinched himself to make sure that he was all right, back at Hogwarts, and it had been just a dream. But even Harry didn't believe that, not after he'd had the first vision in the summer.

Reaching over to his bedside cabinet, Harry opened the drawer and pulled out the Marauder's Map. It was half two in the morning, but entirely possible that Snape was out on patrol. Harry skimmed the map, finding nothing, but down in Snape's office Harry spotted an out of place name on the map. Barty Crouch.

Jumping out of bed, Harry slipped on the closest shoes that he could find, and only just remembered to bring his invisibility cloak as he pulled a jumper over his head and slipped out of the room.

Harry passed the fireplace in the Gryffindor tower, nearly tripping on a stack of books as he remembered that he couldn't just walk down to the dungeons, as the way to get into where Snape lived was through the very office Barty Crouch was inspecting.

“Think,” Harry muttered, tapping the side of his head. “Think, think, think...Dobby!”

Dobby snapped into the room with a great beaming smile.

“What can Dobby do for Harry Potter sir?”

“I need some Floo powder, Dobby,” Harry asked, figuring a direct approach would get him the powder quickest.

“Yes sirs, Harry Potter sirs!” Dobby nodded, disappearing with a pop. He came back a second later, carrying a large jar.

“Is Harry Potter needing anything else?” Dobby asked, grabbing the hem of his Hogwarts uniform and doing a little bow.

“No, that's great, thanks!” Harry quickly said, gabbing a handful of powder and tossing it into the fireplace. The fireplace flared green and Harry hoped to hell that 'Snape's flat' was the right thing to call as he jumped in.

Harry stumbled out at the other end, tripping on the grate and smacking his head against the coffee table.

“Oooh,” Harry groaned, hand flying to his forehead. He rubbed it tenderly, feeling the bump already forming.

“What the hell are you doing?” Snape grumbled a moment later, rubbing his eyes as he walked out from behind the wall where his bedroom was.

“I smacked my head,” Harry complained, keeping his hand on his forehead.

Snape suddenly stood up straight and drew out his wand.

“There's someone in my office,” Snape said, reaching out for Harry and pulled him away from the fireplace, and behind him.

“It's Mr Crouch,” Harry explained, allowing himself to be pulled. “I saw it on the map, and was coming to tell you.”

“Stay here,” Snape warned, advancing toward the door.

“What?” Harry dumbly asked. “No, I can help!”

“Help with what?” Snape hissed, twirling to look at Harry. “Students are not to be anywhere near here, and I am still uncertain to who he actually is. And _what did I say about running into danger?_ ”

Chastised, Harry scowled and watched as Snape left the flat. He left the door to the hallway open though, and Harry snuck along that to see if he could hear what was being said in Snape’s office.

“And have you found what you’re looking for?” Snape’s bored voice intoned. Harry seemed to have missed the start of the conversation, but it sounded like Moody was still there. Remembering that he could see through doors, Harry kept himself away from the door, in the shadows of the stone walls.

“Not as such,” Moody craftily answered. “But the year is only half over.”

“So it is. And it will be a rather tense half year, now that you have been caught breaking into my private office,” Snape answered, his voice rough and dangerous sounding.

“This is school properly,” Moody scoffed. “And I am an Auror.”

“You _were_ an Auror,” Snape snapped. “You are here as a stand in professor, and I assure you, the Headmaster will not stand for such a breach of privacy.”

“He hired me to protect the students, first and foremost,” Moody snapped, banging his cane on the floor to emphasize his point.

“From the ingredients and volumes contained in my office?” Snape dryly asked.

There was a moment of silence, and Harry wished he could see for just a second what was happening. He knew he couldn’t risk it though, as Moody’s eye would see him before he glanced out the door, and Snape would hear him moving in the hall.

“How bad is the burning, Snape?” Moody suddenly asked, and Harry narrowed his eyes as he tried to work out the question.

“I beg your pardon?” Snape evenly inquired.

“The burning, in your arm,” Moody responded, and he sounded almost happy, like he was consumed with a twisted feeling of eagerness. “From the devil’s mark, that’s getting stronger.”

“The devil?” Snape repeated, not rising to Moody’s bait. “Hardly. The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was to convince the world he didn’t exist, and I assure you, the Dark Lord is very real.”

“Oh, I’m well aware of that, Severus Snape,” Moody replied. “Well aware.”

Harry heard the clunking of the cane on the floor again, sounding further away, as Moody headed for the office door.

“Seems your old chum Karkaroff is aware as well,” Moody added. “Mighty panicked about it, too.”

The door slammed shut behind him, and Harry yanked the Marauder’s Map out of his jumper pocket. It was still active, and it didn’t take Harry long to find the nametag leaving Snape’s office.

“Dad, look,” Harry said, holding up the map in the hallway as Snape stepped back in. “Barty Crouch.”

Snape nodded, pushing Harry into his flat.

“So it is,” Snape said, slightly distracted.

“Why is Mr Crouch here?” Harry asked, watching the nametag on the map ascend the stairs. “Is it because of what happened in the summer, at the Quidditch World Cup?”

“That may play a small part,” Snape confirmed. He was stuck deep in thought, and Harry knew he’d get some answers from Snape, but not many. “Bartemius Crouch Senior very harshly oversaw the trials of Death Eaters in the first war, including Sirius Black’s.”

Snape was standing by the fireplace, holding a small bag that had been sitting on the mantel. His retelling of history was laced with bitterness, and Harry got the idea that Barty Crouch was not a very well liked man.

“Why would he be here though?” Harry asked, leaning against the front door. “Pretending to be an Auror?”

“Revenge, perhaps,” Snape replied, with a wry smirk on his face. He pulled up the sleeve of his house robe, and scratched idly at the Dark Mark tattoo. “Despite the overwhelming evidence on my person, he was never able to convict me.”

Harry’s eyes zeroed in on the ugly, but very well detailed, tattoo on Snape’s arm.

“So Moody’s here to get you, not me,” Harry summarized.

Snape rolled his eyes and held out the small bag to Harry, the Floo powder inside glinting in the dull candle light of the room.

“Someone is _always_ out to get you,” Snape said. “In any event, I will report it to the Headmaster in the morning and you will be…”

“Always on guard,” Harry intoned, grabbing a handful of powder. “Wait, I had another dream tonight.”

Harry felt a bit sorry for the man, as once Harry’s dream had been fully described, the tired look on Snape’s face grew both wary and determined. Harry wondered if Snape had known what he was going to get when he’d agreed to be Harry’s guardian, but the forms had been signed long ago and Harry certainly wasn’t going to mention it, not if it would make Snape reconsider his guardianship.

Something must have shown on his face though, as Snape gave him a very awkward one-armed hug.

“Go back to the tower, you blasted boy. You’re spilling Floo powder all over my hearth,” Snape said.

“Yes, sir,” Harry replied, smiling into the fire as he stepped in.

…..

Harry sat in the window ledge of the common room three weeks into January, staring at the genealogy books in front of him. He hadn’t known there were so many Riddles in England, and he had no idea how Snape was going to narrow down the list.

“Hey Harry,” Neville said, flopping down into the leather chair beside Harry. “Homework?”

“Yes,” Harry automatically replied. “No. Yes? Well, sort of.”

Neville gave him a funny look, and laughed. “Very clear answer.”

“Yeah,” Harry grinned. “Hey, do you know if there’s a sort of wizarding atlas?”

“What do you mean?” Neville asked, carefully prying open a chocolate frog box.

“Maybe more like a phone book,” Harry corrected, staring down at his list. Over a hundred Riddles just in Manchester alone, never mind London and other cities. “I’m looking for a family that lived near or in a Muggle town.”

“Oh,” Neville said, catching the frog swiftly as it tried to leap away. “Bit of a lost cause, that. Most wizards who live near Muggles don’t like to advertise themselves. We live just outside Great Hangleton, and I don’t think Gran’s ever been to the local shops.”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “Of course not.”

“Who are you looking for?” Neville asked, peering at Harry’s paper as he munched on the chocolate frog. Harry didn’t get the chance to hide the paper, as a barrage of noise echoed from the portrait door and Hermione stormed in, closely followed by Ron. Ron was holding the _Daily Prophet_ , which Harry knew had a completely false romantic article in it about Hermione and himself.

“But Hermione!” Ron huffed, “I didn't mean it. I know the article is fake! You _told_ me you prefer ginger idiots; why would you go out with Harry?”

“Ron Weasley, don’t you make me laugh,” Hermione ordered, spinning around and catching everyone’s attention. “I’ve got a good mad on and I don’t want to lose it!”

She looked both frustrated and amused, and Ron had a hopeful grin on his face.

“I'm right though, aren't I? Ginger idiots over short scrawny blokes?”

“Oi!” Harry yelled, from his corner.

Hermione gave a frustrated huff that was definitely hiding a laugh, and stomped up the stairs. Ron eagerly followed, his grin even wider.

“Should we warn him about the steps to the girls' dorm?” Neville asked, taking Harry's list out of his hand.

“No,” Harry answered, watching Ron pass over the bridge that led to the girls' dorm. “Let the ginger idiot figure it out.”

Neville smiled and waited for the inevitable yelp. It came not a moment later, followed by shouting, as the stairs turned into a slide and punted Ron away from the girls' dormitory rooms.

“You know, there's a Riddle family near our town,” Neville said, giving the paper back. “Bit of a puzzle too.”

“Really?” Harry asked, picking up his pen. “Your Gran lives in Great Hangleton?”

“Yeah,” Neville answered. “But the Riddles live in Little Hangleton. Real posh family too, old money. Anyway, they all died mysteriously one day when Gran was much younger, and no one could make heads or tails of it.”

“That's odd,” Harry said, writing down the information.

“Could just be bad luck,” Neville supplied. “Why are you looking them all up?”

“Oh, just curious. My Aunt mentioned the name at some point, and I just wanted to see if...”

Harry looked up at Neville and saw the look on his friend's face, the same look that had been there when he'd tried to stop Harry, Ron, and Hermione from leaving the dorm after curfew in first year.

“No, that's not it,” Harry said, quietly. He glanced around the room, but most of the Gryffindors were still out at dinner. “I'm sorry, I just...don't want people to know. Voldemort's real name was Tom Riddle, and I just thought, if I found his family, maybe I could find out something that would help in case he comes back.”

Neville's posture relaxed slightly and he nodded.

“Like a know your enemy, kind of thing?” Neville asked.

“Sort of, yeah,” Harry answered, circling the words 'Little Hangleton.'

“Harry, if you suggest I start doing extra potions lessons with Snape so I can get to know him better, I will seriously bet against you in the next task.”

Harry started to smirk, and then when Ron came down the stairs seconds later, his face bright red and his smile wide, Harry broke into a laugh.

….

 

Snape's Christmas gift was in his pocket, and Harry's legs trembled as he waited on the platform in the great lake. Students were cheering around him and there was a low buzzing noise in his ear from the people talking on the platform around him. Snape had reassured him the night before that he wouldn't be taken, wouldn't be Harry's precious thing, but Harry couldn't be too sure. If Dumbledore were choosing the things to be stolen, it definitely wouldn't be Snape.

Hopefully not.

His fingers were shaking as he opened the jar of gillyweed, and his face scrunched up something horrible as he ate it. Harry shook his limbs to get the taste out of his mouth, hoping the _Daily Prophet_ reporters hadn't taken a photo. And if this worked, as Snape said it would, Harry would buy as much of it as he could and show that stuffy Richard Brook this summer that Harry could kick his arse at swimming.

He gave one final look to the crowd as Ludo Bagman counted down, and he caught a quick glance of his dad's black robes on the shore as Harry went into the water. Snape was safe then, and monitoring things above ground.

Two hours later, as Harry sat in the Gryffindor Tower, grasping a mug of very hot tea, he swore off swimming for the rest of the year. And as the drumbeat of his tattoo steadily faded into a lighter sound, Harry relaxed back into the couch and mentally check marked a box in his mind, labelled ‘second task’. Only one left, not until late June, and then the tournament was done. Harry couldn’t remember what his scores were, as he didn’t much care if he won, but he started to feel a bit of hope that he would survive this tournament after all.

...

Harry’s next lesson focused on apparition again, and required leaving Hogwarts grounds. They flooed first to Diagon Alley, and Harry waved to Tom at the bar before Snape pushed him through to the alley wall. Harry was disguised as John, with his short brown hair and eyes corrected with a temporary sight spell. Snape looked like his summer public self as well, and was able to walk through the alley without a single glance of recognition.

The alley wasn't nearly as crowded as it was in the summer, and no one paid either of them any mind as Snape walked quickly to the apothecary and bought some ingredients.

He led Harry to a tiny side alley, where Snape spread a giant map out against the wall. It had several red lines drawn on it, which Harry recognised as great circle lines. There were lots of little X marks along the lines, as if Snape had been to those towns already and crossed them off the list.

“Pick a route,” Snape said, tracing his finger along the lines.

“Is there one with a Hangleton?” Harry asked, stepping up closer to look at the tiny names on the map. It was easy to skim his finger diagonally up from the North Sea, though the town was so small that he almost missed it. Friskney, Nettleham, Rawmarsh, Wombwell, Huddersfield, Todmorden, _Little_ _Hangleton_. Not quite as small as Lower Tarrow then, as Little Hangleton at least was named on the map.

“Why that one?” Snape asked, his eyes following Harry’s tracing finger. Little Hangleton was directly on a great circle route to Albania.

“Neville mentioned it a while ago,” Harry explained. “His family lives in Great Hangleton, and he said that there’s some sort of mystery around the Riddles of Little. I couldn’t find much about it though.”

“What mystery?” Snape asked, with slight derision as he folded away the map.

“One day, they all simply died,” Harry answered with a shrug.

Snape narrowed his eyes, before holding out his arm.

“Reason enough,” Snape grudgingly admitted, before he apparated them both into thin air.

The landing was slightly rougher than Harry had expected, having grown used to Snape’s usually superb apparition skills. The weather in the north of England was much less pleasant than London’s overcast, and Harry tugged the collar of his jacket up against the drizzle.

Snape led him away from the park they’d apparated to, and followed the main road of the village. It was not unlike Lower Tarrow, but this village had an actual grocer’s, and a pub as well. Snape bypassed both, and turned down a small lane that led up a slight hill.

“Why this one?” Harry asked, careful to avoid the puddles on the unevenly paved road.

“Instinct,” Snape replied. They rounded the corner of the hill and came upon what once must have been a spectacular manor. It was a gothic-looking building, full of peaky roofs and grand dark windows, and the garden at the front had grown rather wild. It reminded Harry of The Addams Family film he’d seen last summer on the telly at the Dursleys’.

“Okay, Dad, you’ve found the creepiest house in England. Can we go?” Harry asked, standing beside Snape.

“Not quite yet,” Snape said, tapping his left arm almost absentmindedly. “Stand here.”

Harry shuffled over to stand beside Snape, and jumped slightly as Snape grabbed his hand and held it up.

“Concentrate,” Snape softly ordered.

Harry flexed his fingers, feeling nothing but the cold rain on his hand, until he bent them forward and they thrummed. Much like the time when he was younger and accidentally touched the metal plug prong as he was plugging in a lamp, his fingers pulsed.

“What is that?” Harry whispered, staring intently at his fingers as he moved them.

“Wards,” Snape replied, dropping Harry’s hand. “That thrumming can only be felt right at the precise edge of them, and most people walk by too fast to register it.”

“So, if I’m careful enough, I can feel if a place has wards around it?” Harry asked, slowly moving his hand toward the invisible edge again.

“Yes,” Snape answered, watching him with a blank expression.

“What sets the boundaries?” Harry next asked. Hermione had often talked about the wards of Hogwarts and what they didn’t permit, but Harry had never given much though to how the wards were formed. It was probably written in _Hogwarts, A History_ , but the bet with Ron was up to twenty galleons now, and Harry refused to lose.

“Anchors,” Snape answered. “Markers in the ground, on trees, or within the bricks of walls. Imagine that the wards over a house, or manor, or castle even, are like a giant invisible tent. The anchors are the pegs that keep it secured.”

“Where are the anchors for our house?” Harry asked, looking around to see if he could spot one of those anchors on the ground.

“Hidden,” Snape replied. “If an anchor is found and destroyed, the wards become weakened. Which means…”

“That if I want to get in somewhere, I need to learn how to find them and destroy them,” Harry finished, nodding.

“Manipulate,” Snape corrected. “Anyone can destroy one, and set off alarms.”

Snape continued to walk around the very edge of the wards, tapping his feet on the damp ground and ignoring the light rain that was falling. Harry wasn’t sure if he was looking for an anchor or not, so he kept quiet. Snape usually had some sort of plan for these lessons to follow, but Harry could never figure it out before hand.

Instead, he looked back at the gloomy looking house. Some of the lower windows looked to be broken, probably by vandals, and two giant plant stands that were on either side of the front steps had been knocked over. None of the windows had any light in them, though the day was dark enough to require it indoors, and most windows didn’t have curtains.

It didn’t look like a house Harry had ever seen before, but there was something sort of familiar about it and the feeling made Harry unsettled.

“We’re not going in, are we?” Harry asked.

“No,” Snape immediately answered. “We’ll follow around the edge of the wards, so as not to not alert whatever is inside.”

“But…” Harry said, staring at the front door again. He could tell by the porch and weeds overgrown on the front step that no one had used that entrance in a very long time. “You think there’s someone in there?”

“It appears abandoned, but there will always be signs,” Snape said, holding his wand out and using it to track the edge of the wards.

Harry turned to stare at him, images of Dracula or Frankenstein in his head. “Signs of what, exactly?”

Snape didn’t reply though, and Harry had to walk fast to keep up with him as he rounded the edge of the walk way, not going up to the front of the house, but following the garden path to the back.

“Signs of occupation, John,” Snape quietly said, his feet making no noise as he carefully stepped on the dirty garden stones. Most were covered with overgrown weeds and brush, but Snape still kept to the path. “Wizards are somewhat talented at occupying abandoned Muggle dwellings, but they will always leave a sign.”

The back garden was even more impressive as the front, and the wild landscaping had nearly grown tall enough to obscure the outbuilding in the far corner of the garden. What was once an old fountain in the middle had a few black crows lazily hopping about in the stagnant water, not bothered at all by the drizzle. Harry hugged himself to fight off a chill that wasn’t quite solely to blame on the weather, and his eyes got caught on a part of the garden that had been gated off with decrepit wrought iron fencing.

“Look to the grass,” Snape quietly told him, pointing around their feet and out toward the general area in front of the back garden doors of the house. “There’s patterns in the grass, it’s been pressed down repeatedly by something long and heavy. Not human.”

“Dad,” Harry said, not having heard a word of what Snape had just said. He reached forward and tugged on Snape’s jacket sleeve, not taking his eyes off the gated area of the garden. “Dad, you’re right, and I want to go home.”

“What?” Snape asked, his expression baffled and a little impatient. “Of course I’m right. What are you on about now?”

“No, you’re really right,” Harry said, fear edging his voice as he looked around them and stepped instinctively closer to Snape. “Someone is here. That’s the cemetery I saw in my dream, in the summer.”

The effect was almost instantaneous. Snape’s entire body stiffened, and he stepped away from the invisible ward line.

“Leave the way we came. Talk loudly, and mention football or some other dreadfully Muggle thing,” Snape whispered, pointing Harry toward the road they’d come in on.

The walk back to the road was the longest Harry had taken since he’d been in the tunnel of the Shrieking Shack last year, walking with Snape and Sirius and Lupin back to Hogwarts. Harry had no idea what he talked about, but Snape added to the conversation with hums and one-word answers, so Harry supposed that he hadn’t blown their cover.

Once they reached the main road, Snape’s posture relaxed ever so slightly and Harry realised they were out of range for being detected.

“Right,” Harry said, running his fingers through his very short hair and shaking out the rain droplets. “So now we know where he is.”

A small wave of panic slipped through him, because knowing where Voldemort was meant that they could go on the attack, instead of waiting for something bad to happen, but it also meant that Harry would have to face Voldemort himself, quite soon.

“Take a breath,” Snape ordered, placing his hand on Harry’s shoulder and squeezing it. “You are John Snape and you have been training for this. You will also not be fighting alone.”

Harry did, taking in a lung-full of wet air as they stood by the side of the road. He was not going to fight alone, that was right. And if they won, he’d never have to fight again.

“Now, we are going to go into the village and you will eat chocolate,” Snape said. “Your skin is paler than mine, which is an admirable feat.”

Harry rolled his eyes at the sarcasm, but it helped with the calming down.

“And then what?”

Snape started walking, casting a warming spell over both himself and Harry. It dried Harry’s clothes, and the conjured umbrellas that followed kept him dry for most of the walk to the village pub.

“We meet with the headmaster, and plan our attack.”

Harry grinned as he opened the pub’s door.

“You mean we plan something, and then go running head first into danger,” Harry said, clearly remembering the lecture he’d gotten on Boxing Day.

Snape scowled as he sat down at a small table, and picked up the menu.

“Stride with purpose,” Snape said, muttering. “Leave the running for the Gryffindors.”

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise. This week's chapter is finished early. :) Thank you for all the reviews! They make my day, to be honest.

 

It was late Thursday evening when they had uninterrupted time to meet with the Headmaster. Harry used his invisibility cloak to walk to the office, keeping his footsteps in time with Snape’s so he wouldn’t be heard. Most students were lounging about in the library, Great Hall, or their dorms, but this was an important meeting and Harry didn’t want to be seen.

The Gryffindors had been out on the quidditch pitch earlier in the evening, as the team had decided to keep practising despite not having a Quidditch Cup that year, and Harry was quite looking forward to Dumbledore's warm office, as he was a bit chilled, and more than a little tired.

“He’ll be able to sort something out? I mean, if you haven’t already,” Harry stammered. “Cause you always, do the right, er…thing at the right time.”

Harry had pulled the cloak off his head as the stone Phoenix staircase had started moving, and so he caught the look on Snape’s face. It was rather expressive, and clearly showed that Snape thought he’d lost it.

“Professor Dumbledore is usually exceptionally brilliant in planning ahead and foreseeing tiny details that become rather important,” Snape answered, looking up to where the landing was approaching. He held a file in his hands, full of papers about the Riddles and Little Hangleton that he'd had acquired from different Muggle offices and record archives.

“Yeah but, you’re a genius and you usually figure everything out too,” Harry blurted, without thinking. Curiously, a speck of red tinged on Snape’s cheeks.

“Yes, well. As good as he usually is, the Headmaster spectacularly drops the ball upon occasion, and that is why I am here,” Snape replied, pushing Harry toward the office door.

“Ah, do come in, gentlemen,” Dumbledore greeted, sweeping his arm out as he opened the door. “I'm just making some tea. Biscuits?”

Ten minutes later, Harry had a hot cup of tea in his hand and a plate of biscuits beside him as he watched Dumbledore and Snape peering at the map on Dumbledore’s desk. It was a copy of the one Snape had pinned up over the desk in his flat downstairs, and this one only had one great circle line drawn on it, from Albania to Little Hangleton. Harry fought a yawn as they discussed the map, twisting his legs out from the comfortable couch as he stretched his tired muscles.

“The house appears abandoned,” Snape said, pulling out a town survey that he’d acquired from a Muggle council office somewhere. “And this hill it sits on leaves it somewhat guarded.”

“But the grounds are in ruins?” Dumbledore asked.

“Yes,” Snape said. “Difficult to move about in, for either party.”

“The cemetery had space in it,” Harry pointed out. Snape turned to look at him, with a curious glance.

“This potion you said, requires very little in the form of ceremony?” Dumbledore asked, tapping his finger on the map, and not acknowledging what Harry had said.

“Yes,” Snape responded, digging through his collection of papers until he pulled out blueprints of Riddle House, from 1875. “Though enough space would be required that it might take place outside.”

“Are you sure Voldemort would risk exposing himself as such? As weak as he is?” Dumbledore questioned.

“He is naive enough to think his father’s home is sufficient as a hiding space,” Snape said. “He likely will think nothing of performing magic outside.”

“Arrogance is dangerous,” Dumbledore murmured.

“How do we stop him then?” Harry asked, finishing his tea. “If we know where he is, and he’s weak, can’t we just go there and...I don't know. Stun him?”

He covered his mouth to stifle another yawn, and considered more tea. The caffeine would either perk him up, or the warmth would make him sleepier.

“I’m afraid it won’t be that easy, Harry,” Dumbledore gently said. “I suspect there is far darker magic at play, which Professor Snape and I shall have to work around.”

Harry narrowed his eyes at the statement, but before he could say anything, Snape beat him to it.

“Tell him,” Snape ordered.

Dumbledore glanced up at Snape, who was standing against the desk with his arms crossed and a serious expression on his face.

“You are asking him to fight this war for you, and you will tell him _everything_ he may face.”

“Or?” Dumbledore asked, but Harry could tell it was pure curiosity. There was no malice in Dumbledore’s tone, nor any sign that he wouldn’t share his information.

“Or John and I find our own way to win,” Snape calmly answered. “And the school will pay for his forfeit of the tournament.”

“Ah,” Dumbledore nodded, pouring himself more tea. “That won’t be necessary, Severus. Have a seat.”

Snape sat heavily in his chair, irritated by Dumbledore but surprisingly not angry. Harry got the feeling that they often pushed each other to exasperation.

“Harry, in the magical world there are certain spells and rituals that are never spoken of. You have been taught about the Unforgivables, but one dark spell that you have never encountered, and hopefully never will, is that of the _horcrux_.”

“That doesn't sound pleasant,” Harry said, giving his cup to Dumbledore for a refill.

“It certainly isn't,” Snape said, crossing his leg over his knee as he settled in to listen.

“It is a form of immortality,” Dumbledore continued, filling Harry's cup. “But it comes at a great cost. It is the method of splitting a soul and containing it in an object, to keep it safe from harm and to enable the person to continue living even if their physical form is destroyed.”

Harry made a face, looking over at Snape as if to check if what Dumbledore was saying was actually true. Snape gave one short nod.

“Souls are split by committing grievous acts against nature,” Dumbledore gently added. “And once a soul is split, it cannot be properly re-joined with its partner.”

“Acts against nature?” Harry asked, thinking of the destructive forces nature was capable of causing. Tornadoes, volcanoes, floods; what could Voldemort have done to equal that?

“Murder,” Snape lowly spoke.

“Oh,” Harry said, pushing the plate of biscuits away as he drew his feet up and hugged his knees. Snape reached over and tapped the top of said knees.

“Shoes,” Snape warned.

“I believe this, Harry, was a horcrux that you destroyed,” Dumbledore said, picking up the diary of Tom Riddle jr. from his bookcase. Harry glanced up at it as he unlaced his shoes, wondering how Dumbledore had gotten it back from Mr Malfoy. Perhaps Dobby had brought it to Hogwarts last fall.

“But you have no confirmation,” Snape mused, rubbing his chin.

“I do not,” Dumbledore agreed. “But it is something we will have to consider. For if Tom Riddle is here, at the Riddle House, we must very carefully plan our next steps.”

Dumbledore sat back at his desk, steepling his fingers in front of his face. Harry thought it was a classic thinker's pose, but Snape seemed to have seen through it.

“Oh, absolutely not,” Snape said, standing up again rather suddenly.

“Hmm?” Dumbledore hummed, reminding Harry again of bees lazily exiting the hive to investigate a strange noise.

“You want to wait it out, to see what he'll do next,” Snape said, standing up to the desk and placing his hands on it. He leaned forward and his hair swung to cover part of his face, but Harry could still hear the impatience in his voice.

“You have Barty Crouch, a disgraced Ministry employee, using polyjuice and pretending to be an auror here at the school. Harry Potter's name is entered into the Triwizard tournament, and no one, save for the person who did it, knows how. Finally, we have located what remains of the Dark Lord, and _you want to wait to see what happens._ ”

“I have not said that, Severus,” Dumbledore replied, with an innocent look on his face. “But I admit that I do not yet know the best course of action, considering the situation.”

Snape sighed as he ran his fingers through his hair.

“We go on the offensive. The Dark Lord is planning to use a potion to bring himself back to his fully corporeal form, with Potter's blood. That much you do know.”

“Yes, but I hardly expect he'll send an invitation to Harry for a day trip to Little Hangleton.”

If it wouldn't have brought on another yawn, Harry would have laughed at the look on Snape's face.

“Which means, he will either try to get Harry away from the school, or he will come here,” Dumbledore serenely continued, giving Harry a small wink when Snape twitched.

“Wouldn't it be better to plan an attack, sir?” Harry asked, interrupting before Snape could start yelling. “That way we have the element of surprise.”

Remembering his failed lessons last summer to teach his cousin about the Table of Elements, Harry smiled to himself as he wondered what the element symbol would be for ‘surprise’. _Ah_ , maybe - if it wasn't taken already.

“It's too risky, Harry,” Dumbledore told him. Snape had wandered off to the side shelf in Dumbledore's office, which held a giant pensieve. “You are safe here at the school, and without knowing what is in the house, or what Voldemort's true plans are...”

“He isn't safe here,” Snape interrupted, speaking down toward the pensieve.  “You know that just as well as I. And the plans will not be secret for long.”

Harry turned side ways on the couch, still hugging his knees, but angled so that he could rest his head against the back of the couch. They'd practised on the field for two hours after dinner, and though it felt great to fly in the crisp air, Harry was definitely feeling sluggish now.

Looking between Dumbledore at the desk, and Snape casually leaning against a bookcase, Harry could tell that there was some form of silent communication happening.

“Severus, are you certain?” Dumbledore asked, flicking his eyes toward Harry for a second. “You have considerably much more to lose this time.”

“Is that not the worst reason to remain idle?” Snape asked.

More silence filled the room, but this time Harry suspected it didn't contain secret eye communication. Instead, Dumbledore was thinking. Harry waited to see what the next answer would be, but his eyes were fighting him to close, and he was starting to lose the battle.

“I suppose it is,” Dumbledore conceded quietly. “Are you certain you want him to stay for this conversation?”

Harry opened his eyes almost comically wide to make sure he could still pay attention to what was being discussed.

“He is only a year younger than I was when two students attempted to murder me at this school,” Snape bluntly said. He turned to look at Harry, finishing his thought with a very dry voice. “And when the lessons started I do believe I promised to help him survive.”

“A man of your word, after all these years,” Dumbledore kindly said. Harry noticed the sharp look Snape gave Dumbledore for the comment, but couldn't figure out the reason for it.

“The regenerative potion the Dark Lord requires isn't very difficult,” Snape said, with a stern tone. “I am in the process of re-joining the Death Eaters, to become the brewer.”

“As yourself?” Dumbledore immediately asked, his concern not fully hidden.

“No,” Snape responded, not elaborating further. “I am currently researching how to nullify the potion.”

There was no response, though Harry belatedly realised that his eyes had closed on him again and he suspected he'd missed Dumbledore nodding.

“As I said before, you have no limit to your potion budget at the school this year,” Dumbledore told Snape.

“Thank you,” Snape acknowledged.

“I expect you'll inform me as soon as there is progress,” Dumbledore continued.

“Of course,” Snape responded, his tone slightly clipped. He wasn't giving away any further information, but Dumbledore didn't press.

“I'm afraid I do have some other, unpleasant news,” Dumbledore said. Harry felt his teacup being lifted out of his hands as he tried to keep up with the conversation. “Sirius Black has redoubled his efforts to have the guardianship information released.”

Snape sighed with impatience, somewhere to Harry's right.

“He's an escaped convict. How, exactly, does he expect to be successful?”

“More importantly,” Dumbledore murmured, and the sound was low enough that Harry nearly missed it. “How will he react when he finds out?”

“Everything was done legally,” Snape said, his voice slightly louder. Harry figured he was looking at the couch as he spoke. “He won't have a legal leg to stand on, but he could disrupt any plans we make against the Dark Lord. I would rather not become a target until absolutely necessary.”

Dumbledore's answer was taking much longer than it normally was, or maybe Harry hadn't heard it. Seemed like it was taking hours.

Harry only partially woke when he felt his hands being separated.

“Dad?” Harry mumbled, looking about blearily. “Feel's like I'm floating.”

“You've been lightened,” Snape said, slipping his hands under Harry's arms and lifting him up. Much like in the summer, when Harry had fallen asleep after that horrible night at the Quidditch world cup, Snape was carrying him. Harry wrapped his arms around Snape's neck, closing his eyes again. Snape had done a body mass spell on him the first time, and Harry figured he wasn't too heavy, so he didn't worry about it.

“I will meet you on Saturday to tighten the wards of Hogwarts,” Snape said, his voice deep and rumbly next to Harry's ear. Snape's long hair tickled Harry's face, but he was too sleepy to brush it away. Harry’s feet were a bit cold, and as he relaxed further against Snape, he hoped that Snape had picked his shoes up off the floor.

“I shall have Fillius, Minerva, and Pomona join us,” Dumbledore agreed, sounding like he was standing somewhere off to the left. “Shouldn't you wake him?”

“He's currently serving detention in the dungeons,” Snape answered, shaking his head and sounding slightly smug. “For stealing from my potions cupboard. None of his little friends will expect him back until well after midnight.”

“No points were lost, I hope,” Dumbledore commented.

“That would be a blatant abuse of my powers as a Professor,” Snape replied, clutching Harry tighter as he stepped closer to the warm flames of the fireplace.

“Yes it would be,” Dumbledore contentedly agreed. “Severus...”

“Not this time,” Snape conceded. The fireplace roared, and from the shifting of Snape's hands, Harry figured Floo powder had been dumped in.

“Planning meeting next month?” Snape asked, turning to face the Headmaster. “Unless, of course, new information is found.”

“Naturally. Nice to meet you, John Snape,” Dumbledore said, causing Harry to blink and lift his head.

“Ignore the old man,” Snape quietly said, pushing Harry's head back down against his shoulder as they stepped into the Floo.

….

Snape double-checked the cards in his wallet as he stood before the fireplace. All were in the name of Evan Rosier, and gave the address of a boringly normal house in a suburb of southeast London. He had a few Muggle pounds in the wallet, along with several galleons in his pocket. A small shoulder bag had been packed as well, carrying Rosier’s Death Eater mask, and an offering of Basilisk scales. They’d come from the monster below the dungeons, which Dumbledore had given him access to once they’d found the tunnel Fawkes had flown out of, but the Dark Lord would think they’d been purchased.

He looked himself over in the mirror once more, twisting his hair up even further. It was a short mess, what passed for stylish amongst Muggle men, and dark brown. His eyes were a piercing blue, and his face had several scars on it. He looked nothing like Severus Snape, nor was he an exact match for the Evan Rosier of a decade ago, but he did look reasonably like what Rosier would have looked like as an older man.

Checking his watch, Snape pulled his spare wand out of the bag, and slipped it into the irritating wand holster of the uniform. He stepped into the fireplace and began his Floo/Apparition jumps to the meeting point.

Twenty minutes later, Snape found himself standing back at the abandoned house in Little Hangleton. Pettigrew slipped out of the front door as he approached, and Snape’s upper lip curled. His hands were out at his sides, fingers flexing as Snape stood right on the line of the wards, testing to see what sort of restrictions he could sense.

“You’re late,” Pettigrew sneered, staying on the porch and not realising the importance of where Snape was standing.

“I am early, which you are well aware of,” Snape replied, walking toward the house a minute later. Rosier’s cape twisted behind him, but it was shorter than his teaching robe and felt odd.

“You’re late if I say you’re late,” Pettigrew snapped. “I’m second in command, and it wouldn't do for you to forget it.”

“Oh is that so?” Snape asked. “That’s certainly new, as from what I remember, you were a scrawny little rat who stayed home while we all went out on raids.”

Pettigrew steeled himself, setting his face into a scowl and standing up as straight as he could, though Snape still had a good four inches height on him.

“I gave very important information to our master,” Pettigrew arrogantly said.

“Which nearly killed him, if I recall,” Snape replied, with a hint of boredom. “Now, are you done with your little power trip?”

Pettigrew withdrew his wand and pointed it straight at Snape, his brittle long fingernails nearly scratching the wood.

“I don’t trust you, Rosier,” Pettigrew said. “You may be a good brewer, but your faked death was too well done. And if I find out you’re going to cross the Dark Lord, you’ll have me to answer to.”

Snape’s hand drew back with a flash and Pettigrew didn’t have a chance to duck as Snape’s fist flew toward him, cracking Pettigrew’s nose.

“Ow!”

“You’ve made me late, _Wormtail_. Be sure to apologise,” Snape said, his voice deep and stern as he walked straight by Pettigrew and into the house.

The inside was just as neglected as the outside, though Snape could see trails in the dust on the floor from both Pettigrew’s footprints, and a giant snake’s slithering. Snape narrowed his eyes at that, as while Harry had mentioned a snake in the dream in the summer, the Dark Lord had never before taken a familiar.

“With permission, to join the shadows of the night, my lord,” Snape intoned, the words coming back to him instantly and causing goose pimples to rise on his arms as he stood at the doorway to the upstairs parlour. It was the only room with light in the house, coming from a bright fire in the fireplace.

“Granted,” the raspy voice in the wingback chair replied. Snape only just managed to keep his expression passive as the half-man/half-creature in the chair was revealed to him.

Snape kept his head bowed; his neck feeling bared and unprotected as it wasn’t covered by his usual long hair. Pettigrew approached as Snape waited, sniffling behind Snape as he gingerly wiped his nose.

“Already a little disagreement with Wormtail?” Voldemort asked, and there was a slight hint of cold amusement in his weak voice.

“I believe positions such as 'second in command' shouldn't be self-assigned, my lord,” Snape said, standing back up and slightly more at ease.

Voldemort smiled. “Ah Rosier, it's a pleasure to see the downtime hasn't calmed your short temper.”

“Downtime? The crime rate is booming in London,” Snape said, shifting his stance as if he was either bored or nervous. He pulled the bag off his shoulder and placed it on the small table beside the armchair. “Plenty of cover to keep active. And as a gift upon my return, I bring you Basilisk scales, for your potions.”

Voldemort, what was left of the foetal form, considered the bag and then looked to Snape.

“Take them back, and use them well,” Voldemort said. “They will come in handy for whatever potions I may need.”

“My lord,” Snape said, exhaling as if he were relieved. He gave a little bow, and startled outwardly when Voldemort reached out and snatched his wrist.

“Where were you when I nearly died?” Voldemort hissed, his claw like fingers digging into Snape's arm. “And when did you learn to brew?”

“I...I was in Cardiff,” Snape lied. His fingers clenched, as if grasping for the game console controller, but that was all right because the Dark Lord would misinterpret the movement as uneasiness. “Tending to my own wounds from my battle with Moody.”

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed, and Snape deliberately glanced down at his left arm, the one held tightly in Voldemort’s grasp. Seconds later, Voldemort’s thin and brittle finger pulled up the sleeve of Snape’s robe, revealing a roughened scar across the Dark Mark.

“I learned to brew to survive,” Snape continued, twitching his neck with exaggeration, and keeping an oblivious expression on his face as the Dark Lord’s gaze fell upon the scarring at his clavicle. It was like stringing along a child’s puppet, but Snape would only allow himself time to gloat once he’d returned to the castle.

“And to make myself useful upon your return, my lord,” Snape finished.

“And if I never returned?” Voldemort asked, his eyes narrowing.

Snape gave a nasty little smile, bearing crooked teeth that were not his regular ones.

“I’m certain I could have created some havoc in your honour, my lord.”

A log in the fireplace cracked with force, causing Wormtail to flinch in the corner.

“Of that I have little doubt,” Voldemort said, releasing Snape's arm from his grip.” There is a recipe upon the side table by the door. I expect samples within a fortnight,” Voldemort said, effectively dismissing Snape. Snape nodded, gathering his bag and slinging it back over his shoulder. He sneered at Pettigrew as he walked toward the door, picking up the parchment at the side table.

“Oh, and Rosier?” Voldemort said, snapping his finger as Snape paused and turned his head. “Welcome back to the fold.”

“ _Crucio_ ,” Pettigrew growled, hitting Snape in the lower back with the spell. It only lasted half a minute, as long as the Dark Lord’s mood swings ever did, but Pettigrew thankfully wasn’t strong enough to cause the same amount of pain.

Still, Snape was not going to be a happy man come morning, especially if he was held up at the Muggle hospital on the way back to Hogwarts tonight.

…

The dungeons of Hogwarts were not big enough to provide hidden training ground, but Dumbledore had brought up the seventh floor Room of Requirement for Snape's use. It wasn't difficult to recreate what he'd seen of Riddle House, and to add a few rooms for additional training. The likelihood of any of them getting far enough into the house to surprise the Dark Lord was ridiculously small, but Snape had long ago learned to always be prepared.

Especially when it came to the Boy who Lived, as Potter had some incredibly dumb luck.

The sound of the door opening knocked Snape out of his musing, and he walked back to the front of the room, hiding the slight limp he had from his sore muscles.

“Different task today, John,” Snape said, twirling his wand in his fingers. They were standing in a front entranceway, which looked dismal and dreary. Cobwebs littered the corners and surfaces of the room, but it was fairly well lit with candles.

“This is the Riddle House, isn’t it?” Harry quietly asked, looking around.

“Yes,” Snape simply answered. He waited a moment as Harry walked around the room, trying to take in and notice as much of the detail as possible.

“What do I have to do?” Harry finally asked.

“Each room has a bag of galleons in it,” Snape said, “along with a recorder that will note down when you make a loud enough noise to alert someone with normal human hearing.”

“So…” Harry said, looking up the stairs at the doorways to the top. “This is to teach me to sneak about quietly when there’s Death Eaters around.”

“Could be,” Snape contradicted, a little smile on his face. “This is also two year’s worth of allowance. If you’re quiet enough, it’s all yours.”

Harry grinned, and slowly made his way through the entranceway, keeping his feet spread to the very edges of the stairs as he went up. He avoided most of the squeaks, and remembered to draw his wand half way up the stairs.

“This isn’t life or death,” Snape said, watching him go. “Nothing in this house can kill you. But you must think that it can.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry said, just before going into the first room.

…

The first room was an exact replica of the entranceway, except Snape was not standing at the doorway. Harry had no doubt that Snape was watching, but for all intents and purposes, he was to do this exercise alone. Creeping along the carpet runner – carpet instead of hardwood floor so his shoes wouldn’t click – Harry searched around the room for the bag of galleons. He had no idea how big it would be, nor what it would look like, so he kept his eye out for anything bag-like. He nearly tripped over a pot plant at the sound of a door slamming shut above him, and Harry could feel his heart start to beat faster.

“Nothing is real,” Harry mouthed to himself, gripping his wand a little tighter. He passed the dust-covered end table that stood on the wall opposite the stairs, and noticed a small purple-coloured bag sitting behind a candleholder. Harry had no idea how he was supposed to get the bag without making noise on the hardwood floor, and nearly cast a spell to summon it before remembering that magic would be noticed as well. It only took a minute to figure out that if he slid his feet he wouldn’t make noise, and then Harry had the bag safely in hand. Once he’d picked it up, it disappeared, likely back to wherever Snape was so the coins couldn’t make noise as he walked.

One bag down, untold number to go.

The second room was extremely dark. Not a single candle had been lit, and the only light came from two windows on Harry’s right. The room looked to be a sitting room, by the furniture shadowed in the dark, and Harry easily moved through it, searching for the bag of gold. There were at least two clocks in the room, and the unsynchronised ticking started to make Harry edgy as he looked. He found the bag on a radiator near the windows, which struck Harry as slightly odd. It took a few seconds to remember Tom Riddle referring to his ‘mudblood father’ in the Chamber of Secrets, but then the radiators made sense. Of course this was a Muggle home.

The third room was very brightly lit, with a fire roaring in the grate, and one single wingback chair in the centre of the room. It looked exactly like the room in Harry’s vision nightmares, and his stomach clenched horribly. Outside the room Harry heard footsteps creaking about on the stairs, but he knew it was just part of the exercise, and tried to convince himself of that.

He stayed stuck to the door, unable to move, as every path toward the moneybag sitting out in the open was bathed in light. There was absolutely nothing to hide behind.

After breathing quickly for a few moments, and absurdly wondering what on Earth a hobbit would do in such a situation, Harry decided that a direct approach was best. He ran quickly on the tips of his toes, straight from the door to the table, approaching from behind the chair so whatever was in it wouldn’t be alerted. He snatched the bag of galleons, letting it disappear through his fingers as he ran back to the door and out, uncaring how many sensor alarms he’d set off with the noise.

The last room was not a room at all.

Harry caught his breath as he stood in the doorway, though he couldn’t quite slow his pulse down to normal. The door opened to the back garden of Riddle House, steps away from the wrought iron gated grave yard, and the smell of earthy peat assaulted Harry’s senses. The air was damp and cold, and he could taste the stone of the cemetery.

A weather damaged stone angel guarded the gate, worn and unmoving as Harry approached. It seemed top heavy, and Harry had the uneasy feeling that the angel was somehow watching him.

“Dad, I don’t want to do this,” Harry whispered, looking over the gate and into the cemetery. He couldn’t see the galleon bag, and knew that he wouldn’t be able to until he walked inside. The drumbeat slowly started in his tattoo, and became stronger as Harry opened the gate. He stepped into the graveyard, looking around the uneven ground and at the unkempt grass growing about the headstones. Harry knew exactly why this ‘room’ was here for him to practise with.

While Dumbledore thought that Voldemort would prefer to regenerate himself indoors, in the safety of a covered house, Snape was almost certain it would take place outside, where Voldemort was surrounded by his family and could mock them with his own resurrection.

He walked quickly around the headstones, learning how to move in the grass without tripping over the long weeds. He ignored the creepy statues, and how they seemed to move slightly when he wasn’t looking, and found a few stones that were large enough to hide behind in case of attack.

He started when a few magpies flew overhead, eyeing the birds warily as they landed on a grim angel statue that was guarding a double grave. His Aunt and Uncle had always considered magpies to just be common nuisances around the garden, but Harry had read the superstitions about them in primary school, and felt he'd had just enough of the training exercise.

“Dad!” Harry yelled, standing up. He hadn't found the last moneybag in the graveyard, but he no longer cared.

A door opened to Harry's far left; appearing out of nowhere in some shrubs by the wrought iron fence, and Snape emerged from it.

“You didn't find the last bag,” Snape pointed out, stepping expertly over the uneven ground and closer to Harry.

“I...” Harry started, before shaking his head. He didn't want to admit that he'd stopped the exercise because he knew the graveyard was very real, that it was a possible place that Voldemort was planning to kill Harry, and it scared him. Instead, Harry took three steps and ran into Snape, in an awkward hug that left his cheek pressed against the scratchy wool of Snape's robes.

Slowly, Snape's arms came up and around Harry's back.

“We snuck out to Hogsmeade to get butterbeer last weekend,” Harry mumbled, speaking into Snape's robes. “I don't deserve the last bit of allowance.”

Harry felt the vibration of a short laugh, and then heard Snape speak.

“I am going to confiscate that bloody map once this war is over.”

Harry felt himself pushed away, and steeled himself to face the graveyard again. When he opened his eyes though, he saw that the graveyard had vanished, replaced with a small and impersonal sitting room.

“Why were you so afraid?” Snape bluntly asked, pushing Harry to the couch. On the coffee table were three bags of galleons, and as Snape walked by, he dropped the fourth down beside them.

“You wouldn't be afraid of a graveyard like that?” Harry defensively answered.

Snape narrowed his eyes and studied Harry.

“You fought a basilisk in an underground chamber, alone, when you were twelve. And I'm fairly certain you knew what you were going to face.”

Harry shrugged, not offering any explanation.

“And in first year, you were certainly eager to protect the stone in the castle,” Snape continued, as if he were theorising. “So why were you so afraid now?”

“Why does it matter?” Harry petulantly asked, overly embarrassed now that he was sitting back in a safe room, even though there'd never been any real danger to harm him.

“You're trying my patience,” Snape warned. “This will be a very real encounter, and if we are fully prepared, it will hopefully end swiftly in our favour. But I _must_ know what spooked you, so I can plan for it.”

“Fine,” Harry sighed, carefully not making eye contact with Snape. “I'm afraid of birds.”

“Don't lie to me, John,” Snape scoffed. “I can see the hobbits dancing in your eyes.”

“What?” Harry blurted, looking straight up. “No, you can't!”

Snape let a sly smirk settle on his face, but didn't answer whether he could see them or not.

“It's because I was alone,” Harry finally muttered, crossing his arms like a petulant four year old. “Every time I've had to fight something, Ron and Hermione have gone for it with me. I might have ended up alone, but I never started that way.”

There was a strong silence in the room, before Snape leaned forward, his elbows on his knees as he cradled his chin in his hands.

“What on Earth makes you think you'll be alone this time?”

Harry rolled his eyes, still managing to look sulky.

“I know you'll be there. But not till after. That's what you're planning, right? To go undercover?”

“Yes,” Snape bluntly answered. “I will be at the house, but I will not walk in with you.”

Harry nodded, his expression blank as he imagined the meeting in his head.

“John,” Snape said, tapping his fingers against his chin. “What do you hear, through your tattoo, when you've activated it?”

“A drumbeat,” Harry answered, looking down at his hand and immediately at the tattooed mole on his finger.

“Any particular pattern?” Snape asked, with feigned disinterest.

Harry's eyebrows furrowed as he tried to remember what it had sounded like when he'd been standing in Moody's office at Christmas. His fingers started tapping the table lightly, in a rhythmic pattern that could almost be marched to. But it wasn't quite a marching drum, but rather something similar, and familiar, like...

“Is that my heartbeat?” Harry asked, looking up at Snape. Snape was still sitting with his hands on his knees, his dark eyes oddly bright as he stared almost through Harry.

“No, _I_ hear your heartbeat,” Snape answered, moving his right hand away from his chin, lowering it and spreading his fingers slightly so Harry could see the familiar flat mole on the inside of his finger. “You hear a different one.”

Harry's mouth dropped a little in surprise, and then spread into a smile.

“I'm bad for your blood pressure, aren't I?” Harry said, a faint tinge of embarrassed blush on his cheeks as he grinned.

“Hmm,” Snape agreed, raising his eyebrow to make the point as he sat back in the chair. “I have always suspected that a Potter would do me in.”

…..

Harry didn't mind study period, as the classrooms they used were usually quite warm, and much quieter than Gryffindor Tower. As much as he loved the Gryffindor rooms, there was always something fun going on (usually related to Fred and George), and Harry found it rather difficult to concentrate on his homework.

Unfortunately, the study room open for them tonight also was open for the Slytherins, and Draco Malfoy had chosen to use it as well.

“Notice how he's left us alone for most of the term?” Hermione said, watching Malfoy out of the corner of her eye. He was huddled around something at the desk, and both Goyle and Crabbe seemed to be very interested in it as well.

“After you punched him last year?” Ron asked, sniggering into his notebook. “Of course he has.”

Hermione blushed, but she did not look at all regretful.

“That's not what I mean,” Hermione said. “I think they're up to something; look at how secretive he’s being.”

“He's a toff,” Harry said, watching a school owl fly into the room. “Thinking he's better than everyone else doesn't make him secretive.”

The prefect supervising the study hour barely glanced at the bird, and it swooped down to land on the table next to Harry.

“What's that?” Ron asked, nodding to the plain envelope the bird was carrying.

Harry shrugged, opening it.

“It's not from Sirius,” Harry said, trailing off.  He'd meant to write Sirius last week, but had been distracted with the new training task. Now it was closing in on April, and Harry was worried that Dumbledore's interference at the Ministry wouldn't hold out for much longer.

“It's from Snape,” Harry quietly said. Hermione looked up from her homework, but let Harry read the note before asking.

_J-_

_You did well in the Room of Requirement exercises. Do note that you relaxed too much in the dark room – under the perception that the lack of light made you harder to detect. Sound still travels in the dark._

_Wear comfortable clothes for your lesson on Saturday, I will be taking more blood for testing. A solution has been found._

The note was unsigned, but there was a blob of ink where a signature should have been, as if Snape couldn't decide what to write and eventually decided to leave it blank. ' _A solution has been found_.' The words both excited and terrified Harry, as it meant that he'd be facing Voldemort soon. It also, hopefully, meant that all this would shortly be over, and he would no longer be a target.

“Just a note about the next lesson,” Harry explained, when he found both Ron and Hermione looking at him. He folded it up and shoved it in his book bag, taking a plain sheet of parchment out.

“Do you know what the third task is yet?” Ron asked, keeping his voice down. There weren't a lot of students in the study room, but there were enough to overhear if they said anything too loudly.

“No,” Harry said, shaking his head. “But it's the third task. It's probably going to be the worst of the lot.”

Ron scrunched up his face sympathetically.

“I'll try not to get kidnapped this time,” he offered, following up with a cheeky grin.

Hermione shook her head and went back to work. Harry grinned back, wishing he could tell his friends that there was going to be a far more important task before the finale of the Triwizard tournament. Instead, he inked up his quill and put it to paper, starting his letter to Sirius.

…

Books and scrolls were covering Snape's desk, to the point that they'd spilled over to the kitchen table. Snape scowled at them, but they couldn't be put away for another month at least. O.W.L.S. and N.E.W.T.S. were approaching for the older students, and as Head of House, Snape spent an inordinate amount of time holding hands of students who either hadn't bothered to study for the careers they wanted, or chosen a career in the first place.

Perhaps he should sit his son down and make him go through the career choice books a year early, as he had a sinking feeling that the wizarding world was still largely a mystery to Harry Potter, and he wouldn't have a clue what options there were. And Snape refused to let him settle for 'Defender of the World’ for the rest of his life.

Several papers fell out of John's books as Snape passed by the coffee table, and Snape bent down to pick them up, muttering about the mess. One page on the very top of the pile caught his attention though, as it was addressed to Sirius Black. There was only a few seconds of deliberation over whether he should read the letter or not, and considering Black was currently fighting the Ministry to find out who Harry Potter's guardian was, Snape decided to read it and find out what information was being handed over.

_“Dear Sirius,_

_Thanks for the good luck wishes in the tournament. You don't need to come north, as everything seems to be under control at the moment. Mostly – you know how Hogwarts is. I hope you're at least somewhere warm, as it's seems spring is very late to arrive._

_I have this friend that I wanted to tell you about. He’s really excited for the summer, because he has this guardian that he lives with, and he no longer has to put up with his horrible relatives. He’s an all right kid, and last year he even got to learn how to swim. But this guardian of his, he’s a strict man, but my friend says he’s a good one. He’s always telling my friend how to eat properly, making him do his homework, telling him when to go to bed, when his curfew is, you know, boring adult stuff like that._

_Not fun things like I’ll imagine we’ll do when you come visit. Not games and experimental magic, like the Marauders did._

_And my friend hasn’t told anyone else about his guardian either, because he thinks Voldemort’s coming back, and he doesn’t want to lose this guardian like he lost his parents._

_Anyway, sorry to ramble, but I like my friend and I think he’d be really gutted if he finally had a family, and it was taken away from him without everyone knowing the full story. You know?_

_Take care of yourself out there, and give Buckbeak some scratches for me. Only three months until the tournament is over, and then we won’t have to worry anymore!_

_Harry.”_

Snape stared at the letter, skimming it once more, to ensure that he had properly read between the lines and got the right message that Harry had intended. The door opened just as Snape had finished his re-read, and Harry bounded in with his summer notebook.

“Got it!” Harry triumphantly said, kicking his shoes off by the door.

“You manipulative little bastard,” Snape said, with a smirk on his face, and not just a little pride in his voice.

Harry's face fell for a split second, before narrowing into anger as he focused on the letter in Snape’s hand.

“That's mine! It was in my workbook!”

“Your workbook, which is in my house,” Snape said, waving the parchment as if the details weren't important. “And which fell off the table, creating a giant mess, because someone left it too close to the edge.”

“That's not the point,” Harry said, shoving his hands in his pocket.

“No, it isn't, is it?” Snape asked, quite amused. “The point is that you have used a very well written guilt-trip to convince your godfather that he would be selfish to try to dissolve the guardianship you currently have.”

Harry looked at him, with sharp green eyes and a defensive expression.

“Well done,” Snape smugly complimented.

A blush threatened to rise on Harry’s cheeks, and he rubbed the back of his neck, awkwardly accepting the compliment.

“I figured if he didn't find out who it was until after Voldemort was gone, it's one less thing to worry about,” Harry excused.

“Worry about him, or me?” Snape silkily asked, still amused.

Harry looked confused for a moment, before moving to snatch the letter from Snape's hand.

“Not sure, exactly. But I know he'll try to kill you.”

Snape shrugged, moving to the desk and picking up a phial to collect a sample of Harry's blood.

“And again I ask, who are you worried most for?”

“Him,” Harry exhaled in admission. He walked over to the desk and held out his arm.

“Not because I think you’re a better fighter,” Harry boldly clarified. “But Sirius makes dumb decisions when he’s angry and that’s going to backfire.”

“You don’t think I’m a good fighter?” Snape sharply demanded, pressing the phial to Harry’s arm and casting a spell to remove the blood sample.

“I’ve only really seen you face Lockhart,” Harry answered, hiding a smile as he looked away from his arm. “And that wasn’t really a challenge, was it?”

“Child’s play,” Snape muttered, carefully capping off the phial.

“Do you think Voldemort will notice that you’ve changed the potion?” Harry suddenly asked, his tone serious as he watched Snape label the phial.

“I hope not,” Snape quietly said, concentrating as he wrote the date. “If he does, I shall be in great pain, and our plan will not work.”

“What if we kill him in Little Hangleton, and Dumbledore was right about the horcruxes? They manage to keep him alive,” Harry asked, turning to the kitchen to get a snack. He always felt light headed after giving a sample, and Snape had his ever-present favourite box of cookies in the cupboard over the coffee maker.

“The Headmaster is currently working toward a solution for the possible horcruxes,” Snape explained, clearing off part of the kitchen table. “Come here.”

“You don't think he'll be able to destroy the horcruxes in time,” Harry said, wandering over with a stack full of biscuits.

“I have to assume that he will,” Snape answered, lighting his wand up with lumos. He was sitting in the chair opposite to the one he’d just pulled out for Harry. Harry sat down and flinched when Snape plucked his glasses off of his face.

“What are you doing?” Harry asked, blinking his eyes as everything was out of focus. Snape’s knee bumped against Harry, and Harry tried to follow the wand light.

“Removing one last weakness,” Snape slowly replied, checking Harry's eyes with his wand. Satisfied with what he saw, Snape held out a large glass of indigo coloured liquid.

“Can you actually fix them?”

Snape gave Harry an insulted look, pushing the glass towards Harry’s hand.

“Of course I can fix them. Muggles can fix them with a laser, but you think I, a potions master, can't do it with a potion?”

Harry eyed the liquid in the glass, not at all enticed by the scent wafting up from it.

“Why a potion over a laser?”

“Because it tastes fouler,” Snape answered, lifting the glass and Harry’s hand.

Harry scrunched his face up.

“Thanks, Dad.”

Snape smirked as Harry drank the potion, and fiddled with Harry’s spectacles.

“Ensure to wear your glasses every day. No one is to know that you can see without them.”

Harry nodded, blinking rapidly as things began to shift more and more into focus.

“So now…we just pick a date?” Harry asked.

“No,” Snape answered, checking Harry’s eyes again with his wand. “I have a few more tests to run, and I will need to spend more time brewing for the Dark Lord. It won’t be for at least another month.”

“Okay,” Harry nodded, relaxing slightly. He wanted to get it over with, but he was nervous and scared, and didn’t mind waiting just one more month. After all, what was one month when he’d been under some form of attack since first year?

“Does he trust you enough that you can switch the potions?” Harry asked, folding his glasses as Snape stood to wash the potion beaker in the sink.

“The Dark Lord doesn’t trust anyone that much,” Snape answered, sounding slightly lost in thought.

 

 

 

 


	15. Chapter 15

 

Defence against the Dark Arts had a double period on Thursdays, and while Harry used to enjoy it, he now found the class came with an underlying feeling of stress. Professor Moody, or Barty Crouch, never did anything outside of being a surprisingly dedicated teacher. Harry hadn't confirmed to Ron and Hermione that Moody was someone else, but they had picked up on the fact that Harry was constantly on alert in Defence class.

Today's lesson was on the confundus charm, and Harry was not taking many notes as much as he was carefully watching the way Moody was performing the demonstrative spell.

“Make sure your concentration isn't sloppy!” Moody barked, holding his wand up at Daphne Greengrass. She was today's volunteer, looking slightly nervous but still pleased to have been chosen.

“Your control of the spell is important,” Moody continued, his one eye flicking over the classroom. “It makes the difference between confusing someone away from what yer doing, or leaving them befuddled enough that everyone notices. And what's wrong with that?”

The class watched as he cast the spell, and Daphne walked around the front of the class with a bewildered look, as if she'd suddenly realised she was very lost and perhaps the walls shouldn't be moving on her.

“Potter! What's wrong with that?” Moody asked.

Harry, who was watching Daphne, easily answered.

“If she's confused lightly, she'll think it's silly she was paying any attention to you and go off to do something else. If she's too confused, like now, you'll draw attention to her, and yourself.”

“Very good, Potter,” Moody said, with a gruff and yet approving voice. “So is this a spell for thieves and no-gooders?”

Neville quickly raised his hand, dropped it slightly, and then raised it again.

“Longbottom!”

“Aurors use it too, don't they? When they're investigating,” Neville answered.

Moody smiled, and released the spell on Daphne.

“Aurors, eh? Why wouldn't they just flash their badge?”

Harry, without looking down at his book, quickly wrote the word 'they.'

“Uh, they might be undercover?” Neville continued, quill gripped tightly in his hand.

“Undercover indeed. That's right, lad,” Moody agreed, gesturing for Daphne to return to her seat. He limped to the front of the room, his cane smacking down on the floor and echoing through the classroom.

“Mr Malfoy,” Moody said, not actually looking at the class as he walked. “Either kill that insect in your hand or release it. If you want to lose yer mind, there's better ways to go about it.”

There were a few titters of laughter in class, and Harry let loose a wide smirk. Malfoy looked furious.

“Now, the Ministry won't let me teach you how to do the spell,” Moody said, writing ' _confundus_ charm' on the chalkboard. “But if you're all smart enough to figure out what it is, now would be a good time to practise.”

The chairs scratched on the floor as Harry's classmates rose, eager to try to confuse their partners. Harry rose slowly as well, remembering Moody's ever seeing eye. He tapped on his workbook, catching Hermione's eye on the word they.

“The Aurors,” Harry said, as if they were talking about the charm. “He said they, not we. Isn't that a bit strange?”

“Harry, is this about the polyjuice in the flask again?” Hermione whispered, drawing her wand. Ron was at the desk next to them, laughing at Seamus' faked confused face.

“Just...” Harry said, glancing back up at the front of the room. “Just be careful around him.”

“We always are, Harry,” Hermione said, rolling her eyes. “I have noticed the pattern with Defence teachers, you know.”

Harry smiled, and then crossed his eyes and wandered into the table as Moody came to check up on them.

….

The mail trickled in lazily on Saturday morning, and Harry was a little surprised to find a letter for himself. Sirius had been sporadic at best with his post, and he never sent it at the regular times. The bird that landed at Harry's side was a chipper little brown owl, and the bag he held in his feet had 'London Post' embroidered on it. Someone had sent him a letter through general post, then.

Harry gave the bird a bit of his kippers in exchange for the letter, and listened to Ron read out some of the ridiculous letters in the newspaper that had been written about Harry and Hermione. He was only half paying attention, as he didn't much care what the _Daily Prophet_ had to think, but Hermione was rather ticked off and determined to find out who was giving them information from inside Hogwarts.

The letter, as it turned out, had nothing to do with dating rumours or the _Daily Prophet_. It was from Professor Lupin, who had been contacted by Sirius Black and had a few questions. The letter didn't come right out and ask if Harry had someone else he was living with, but enquired in a roundabout way if Harry would be spending his entire summer in Little Whinging, or somewhere else.

Harry sighed and thought about crumpling up the sheet of paper, but knew he'd have too many people asking questions if he did. Sirius just couldn't leave alone, could he? Fortunately, Dumbledore was predicting an end to Voldemort soon (one way or another), so Harry supposed when this was all over, and it was no longer important to keep such life-endangering secrets, he'd be able to tell Sirius everything.

And wasn't that a conversation Harry was looking forward to.

“I'm going to walk around outside,” Harry announced, folding the letter into his jeans pocket and standing up with a stretch.

“Good idea, Harry. Some fresh air will help us all,” Hermione said, glaring at Ron.

“Fine,” Ron muttered, stuffing a roll in his jumper pocket.

They walked silently out of the hall, moving toward the front door to walk in the front garden of Hogwarts. Harry nearly ran into Snape as he turned around the corner, but Ron yanked him back just before contact was made.

“Let's not lose points,” Ron muttered, glaring distrustfully at Snape. Snape raised an eyebrow, as if he didn't believe that the three weren't up to something, but said nothing and walked off.

“Do you guys think Voldemort is coming back?” Harry quietly asked, as they made their way outside. The sun was out, and thought there was a bit of spring chill in the air, the day was quite pleasant.

“Well, Professor Snape must think so,” Hermione answered, watching some birds soar overhead. “Or I don’t think he’d be training you.”

Ron nodded, kicking a stone ahead of them. “Mum and Dad always said that if you don't have proof, don't believe it. And no one ever found You Know Who's body.”

Harry agreed. “The killing curse doesn't make people vanish into thin air.”

“Not from what I’ve read,” Hermione said, leading them down the path toward the vegetable garden.

“Who's the letter from?” Ron asked, pulling the roll out of his pocket and starting to munch on it.

“Professor Lupin,” Harry automatically answered. He was thinking ahead in the conversation, something Snape had taught him to do, and working out which direction he wanted it to go.

“Sirius wants to reinstate himself as my guardian,” Harry carefully said.

Hermione passed the gardens and walked a bit further, toward the Black Lake.

“I didn't think he could do that,” she said, her feet leaving prints in the still soft ground by the water.

“Not really, not while they think he's still a criminal,” Harry shrugged. There was a giant old tree log at the lake, and Harry plunked down on it.

“Sirius would make a great guardian,” Ron said, sitting on the log and continuing to eat his roll.

“No, he wouldn't,” Harry quietly said, staring out over the water.

Hermione, who'd been picking up flat-ish stones to skip across the lake, looked back at Harry with a curious expression.

“I thought you liked Sirius,” Hermione said.

“I do,” Harry responded, shrugging again. “And he'd be really fun to hang around.”

“Yeah,” Ron agreed. “Probably let you stay up as late as you want, and teach you how to do fun magic. Wouldn't care if you did magic at home underage.”

Harry gave a rueful smile. Snape already allowed most of that.

“Yeah. He'd make a great older brother,” Harry agreed. “But I'm not sure about the whole responsible adult thing.”

“What are you talking about?” Ron asked, flabbergasted. “First, you have no idea what older brothers are actually like, ‘cause they’re not nearly as fun. And second, of course he’s responsible. He saved us all from Wormtail, didn’t he?”

“Ron, he _broke your leg_ trying to go after Pettigrew. Sorry, but I'm not going to trust someone who doesn't think twice about hurting one of my friends,” Harry grumbled, getting up from the log and walking closer to the water.

“Fine then,” Ron said, drawing in the ground with a stick. “What _boring_ person would you choose?”

“I already have one,” Harry said, picking up a stone and lobbing it until the lake. “Until Voldemort's gone, I'm not safe anywhere else.”

He'd carefully chosen his words, and Harry was certain not even Hermione would figure out that Harry wasn't talking about the Dursleys.

“You can’t stay with Snape?” Hermione asked, watching Harry.

“What?” Harry blankly asked.

“If he’s teaching you, can’t you stay with him?” Hermione clarified. “He’s safe enough, isn’t he?”

“Yeah, he is,” Harry replied, throwing another stone.

“He’d probably be a good guardian,” Hermione idly said, watching the Giant Squid splash about in the distance.

“How long have you hated Harry, Hermione?” Ron asked, standing up and coming to stand beside them. “Or is this new?”

Hermione gave Ron quite the solid smack, and Harry had only a small smile on his face as he continued looking out over the lake. When he was finally allowed to tell his friends about where his home now was, and whom it was with, he’d have to figure out the best way to break it to Ron so that his friend wouldn’t do something stupid.

……

The next planning meeting took place on a sunny Thursday afternoon in late April. Neither Harry nor Snape had a class, and Dumbledore had made himself available for a solid two hours of strategic discussion.

A map of the house at Little Hangleton was spread out on Dumbledore's desk, and Harry stared at it.

“I would much rather wait until he makes his first move,” Dumbledore mused, looking at the map and at the hand drawn ward lines around it.

“No,” Snape bluntly said. “Wait until Crouch kidnaps Potter and takes him to the house? I lose enough sleep as it is.”

“Perhaps he's coming here,” Dumbledore pointed out.

Snape sighed and rubbed his forehead, as if fighting off a headache. Harry hid his smirk, glad for once that he wasn't the cause of said headache.

“This potion, to regenerate the Dark Lord's body, requires a large enough cauldron to put the half-stunted form he is now inside it. And if he is successful, he will call back whoever remains of his faithful followers. He believes that we do not know of the house at Little Hangleton, so why on Earth would he come here?”

“What, exactly, is Voldemort going to do if he kidnaps me?” Harry asked, impressed by his own calm voice.

“Take your blood, and regenerate himself with it,” Snape replied, staring at the map. “Which would then render your mother's protection useless.”

“Oh,” Harry said, flopping back onto the couch. “That's...that's going to hurt.”

Snape glanced at him.

“I am trying to prevent that,” Snape pointed out.

“I know,” Harry petulantly said. “But if you made a potion that will harm him, there's no way he'll try it without the blood in the mix too.”

The corners of Snape's mouth turned up, and he looked back down at the map.

“You are getting far too smart for your own good.”

A small pop was heard, and Harry looked to his right to see a short but pleased looking house elf standing by the office door. Its feet were covered in muck, and it was holding an empty canvas bag.

“Is there anything else sirs would like?” the elf asked, to Harry's confusion.

“No, thank you,” Snape replied. The house elf disapparated with another quiet pop, which Dumbledore watched with amusement.

“I never pictured you as a man to require the many services of an elf,” Dumbledore commented idly, pulling out a weather almanac for the region Little Hangleton was in.

“I've used them for years,” Snape commented, placing a potion bottle on the desk, atop the map. “Very skilled, and even the greatest of wizards forget to include them in ward protections.”

Harry grimaced at the foul green liquid in the potion bottle.

“Oh, yeah,” he then said, smiling. “Like when Dobby found me at my Aunt and Uncle's house.”

Dumbledore coughed slightly and sat back in his chair.

“How far is it from the front door to where Voldemort is?” Dumbledore asked, looking pointedly at Snape.

“Once again, I believe it will be outside,” Snape reminded him. “The Dark Lord now has several bottles of this regeneration potion, which he plans to use to bring himself back to a fully corporeal body.”

“And if we, er, kill him, he'll have those horcrux things still to keep him safe?” Harry asked.

“Yes,” Snape said. “However, I am attempting to alter his regeneration enough that they won't recognise him.”

Dumbledore looked impressed at that.

“Is that even possible?” Dumbledore asked.

Snape ran his fingers through his hair, and then picked up the potion bottle. He held it up so that light from the window filtered through the top part of the glass, and then gave it a shake.

“It isn't supposed to be possible to survive the killing curse,” Snape said. “We will hope for the best.”

“Okay,” Harry said, from the couch. “So if I'm there, and he's used my blood for the potion, and now he's human again, how will we know if his horcruxes are around? Once we've killed him.”

“Unfortunately Harry, it’s not simply a matter of casting a spell and forcing the soul to reveal itself,” Dumbledore grimly said. He picked up Voldemort’s old diary and grimaced at it. “They’ll be hidden.”

“Is there even a spell to reveal souls?” Seems a bit…well, girly,” Harry said. From the bookcases Harry heard a rather loud snort.

“Yes, it is rather popular around Valentine’s Day,” Dumbledore admitted, with a smile. He flourished his wand and gave it almost a lazy wave, muttering softly to himself.

“ _Animus revelio_.”

A warm and very slight breeze passed through the room, and Harry saw a slow moving spark of yellow particles haze around Dumbledore’s head.

“There you are,” Dumbledore smiled, looking straight at Snape. “Proof that Professor Snape has a soul.”

Harry grinned, looking at the dark blue particles over Snape’s head, before he noticed the intense gaze he was getting in return.

“And Harry Potter seems to have two…” Snape trailed off, abandoning the bookcases and striding over to the couch, yanking Harry up onto his feet.

“Two? I can’t have two,” Harry protested, waving his hand over his head. He couldn’t feel the particles though, and Snape caught his wrist.

“Red and white, Headmaster,” Snape mused, using Harry’s wrist to slowly turn Harry around. Harry caught sight of Dumbledore's determined expression and started to feel a bit uneasy.

“What does it mean, Dad?” Harry quietly asked, not trying to pull his hand out of Snape's grip.

Snape was watching the Headmaster though, and had a fierce scowl on his face.

“Something you're not telling us, Albus?” Snape asked, his voice even and emotionless.

Dumbledore's concentration broke at that, as if he'd never heard Snape say his name before.

“Just a speculation,” the Headmaster finally answered. “I had hoped it wasn't true.”

Dumbledore walked toward them, but Harry flinched when the Headmaster raised his hand, bumping back into Snape. Dumbledore's expression saddened for a few seconds, but then turned serious again.

“I had suspected that Voldemort might have made an unintentional horcrux, the night he tried to kill Harry,” Dumbledore answered, turning to pace slowly in front of his desk.

“What?” Harry asked, blinking strongly. Snape pushed him away slightly, turning Harry and lifting his chin.

“The scar,” Snape said, his eyes jerking back and forth as he studied the lightning bolt scar.

“Yes,” Dumbledore quietly answered.

Harry shook his head, releasing Snape's grip.

“The difficulties the Sorting Hat had in placing Harry, his sometimes Slytherin instincts, and his ability to speak Parseltongue,” Dumbledore rattled off. “I have always thought that something of Voldemort transferred to Harry on that horrible night, and now, I'm afraid, I know what.”

Snape sunk back down onto the couch, deep in thought. His hands were balled into a fist, and he tapped them gently against his chin.

“How are they destroyed?” Snape blandly asked.

Harry watched between the two men, and saw the hesitation in Dumbledore's expression.

“There are not many ways,” Dumbledore said. “And they should be perhaps discussed later, once they have all been collected.”

“Do not keep secrets like this from him,” Snape warned, unmoving.

“I do not wish to tell either of you, my boy,” Dumbledore softly said, sitting down at his desk. He opened one of the drawers, and Harry saw a small golden cup with a vicious crack in it appear.

Harry felt unnerved at the conversation. He'd never felt anything different about himself, other than the Parseltongue, and had a hard time believing that a piece of Voldemort's soul was inside his mind. It was actually quiet unsettling, so he tried not to think too much about the actual details.

“So far, the only possible ways to destroy it are by using Basilisk venom, or Fiend Fyre,” Dumbledore said, turning the cup around in his hand. “This belonged to Helga Hufflepuff – it's a rather long story how it came to be in my hands – and it was a horcrux.”

Dumbledore looked directly to Snape, completely ignoring that Harry was standing over by the antique globe.

“I tried absolutely everything to exorcise it, Severus,” Dumbledore continued, almost apologetically, “but in the end I was forced to destroy both, with the venom.”

Snape's eyes closed, and Harry felt even more confused.

“Shit.”

It was very quietly spoken, but seemed to echo through the office and Harry's mouth dropped open in surprise. For all the mean and gruff exterior that Snape had, Harry couldn't ever remember him getting angry enough to swear. Even this time he wasn't, because Snape's tone was more one of resignation. And then Harry realised why Dumbledore wasn't looking at him. He was looking to Snape, the parent figure.

“He means destroy me, right?” Harry asked, staring only at Snape. “Kill me, to kill the horcrux?”

Snape opened his eyes again, but they weren't red, or even teary. They were dark and focused, as if Snape was working on the largest puzzle he'd ever encountered. For a man who'd set up the potion logic puzzle to guard the stone, Harry knew it had to be a troubling one.

“There will be another solution,” Snape said.

“Yeah, but, right. Basilisk venom kills it, doesn't it? I've been bitten by a Basilisk before,” Harry stated, glancing at Dumbledore, and then focusing back at Snape.

“Here,” Harry said, holding out his arm.

Snape nearly sprang off the couch, gliding over to Harry and grabbing his arm.

“Yes...you did,” Snape muttered, running his thumb over Harry's forearm, searching for the scar.

“Hurt a bit, quite a lot, actually,” Harry continued, watching.

“Say something in Parseltongue,” Snape ordered.

“I can't just do it on command,” Harry stammered.

Snape huffed and dropped Harry's arm, so he could yank up his left sleeve.

“Talk to the snake,” Snape said, baring the Dark Mark.

“Severus, I'm not sure that is a good idea,” Dumbledore warned, from where he was sitting down and watching.

“ _Where's your tail? Is it just curled up inside the skull? Doesn't seem like there's enough room_ ,” Harry said, concentrating on the snake.

“Interesting,” Snape said, rolling his sleeve back down. “You still have the Parseltongue.”

“Severus, would Voldemort have sensed that?” Dumbledore asked.

“It's a tattoo, not a reverse bat signal,” Snape bluntly said. He twirled and walked to the desk, to pick up the diary. “Now, this was thoroughly destroyed, along with the horcrux inside. But you were saved by Fawkes' tears, weren't you, John?”

Harry, who was staring at his blemish free arm again, looked up and answered.

“Yes.”

“So, the horcrux wasn't fully destroyed,” Snape continued. “But perhaps it was damaged.”

“Damaged enough to be useless?” Dumbledore pondered. “There'd be no way to test.”

“Perhaps we don't need to,” Snape mused.  Harry was following the conversation, but didn't know enough about dark magic to be able to contribute. He was walking back toward the couch to sit and wait it out, when Snape turned toward him and jammed the Sorting Hat on his head.

“Timing's a bit off for sorting,” the Hat yawned, its voice echoing in Harry's ear.

“Did you put Mr Potter in the right house, last time?” Snape asked. Harry wondered how Snape was going to hear the answer, but then remembered the hat was perfectly able to bellow out the names of the Houses, so a simple conversation should be easy. The chant of 'not Slytherin, not Slytherin' flashed back in his mind, and Harry hoped Snape wouldn't find out about it.

“Mr Potter had a choice,” the Hat graciously said. “He would have been suited for either Gryffindor or Slytherin.”

“And now?” Snape asked, a rather curious look on his face. Harry knew that he'd be questioned later on why he hadn't chosen the noble house of Slytherin.

“He would have the same choice,” the Hat said, and though Harry couldn't quite see Snape's face around the large brim, he definitely heard the irritated grunt. A swathe of black appeared in front of Harry's eyes, and he could feel the Hat being pulled off his head.

“The choice has always been his,” the Hat continued, and it hovered just above Harry's head, static making some of his hair stick up. “As he has always been stronger than the crippled part.”

Harry narrowed his eyes at that, and the hat was fully yanked off his head.

“I have a part of Voldemort's soul in my head, and it's damaged,” Harry summarized, after a moment of awkward silence.

“So it would seem,” Dumbledore mused. “Perhaps then it is also ineffective as a horcrux.”

“We will not be testing that theory,” Snape decided, walking over to the shelf that the Hat normally rested on.

“Severus...” Dumbledore started.

“No. Not until further research is completed,” Snape interrupted, his tone set and final. The Hat was placed back into its normal spot with a gentle hand, and settled in with a small sigh.

Dumbledore nodded. Harry was about to ask just how much research had been done on horcruxes, when a rather persistent alarm sounded. The noise of a handheld bell clanging filled the room, and Dumbledore rose from his seat far quicker than Harry had ever seen him move before.

“Harry, wait here for us to return,” Dumbledore ordered, swirling an outer cloak on and nodding his head toward Snape. “This room is safe-guarded.”

“Er, all right,” Harry said, taken aback from the sudden emergency.

“A house elf will be quite happy to serve you a small snack while you wait, I'm sure,” Dumbledore said, holding up his wand. It glowed a faint orange, and he studied it.

“Headmaster?” Snape enquired, his own teaching robe snapped around his shoulders.

“ _Someone_ is currently making portkeys within the castle,” Dumbledore gravely said, before sweeping out of the room. Snape followed quickly after, shutting the door firmly behind him.

Harry wasn't hungry, as dinner was only a few hours away and he'd had a fairly good lunch. Instead, he wandered about the office, looking at the oddities that Dumbledore collected. He couldn't figure out a use for more than half of the machines, cogs, and swirling things on the shelves, but Harry suspected Dumbledore didn't know what some of them did either.

The room had a quiet hum to it from all the instruments though, and Harry found it both amusing and calming that the room sounded like Dumbledore. It was a lot less colourful though, except for the pensieve in the open cabinet to Harry's right. It was swirling, which Harry knew was normal, but also emitting a rather bright blue light. The light didn't reach very far out of the bowl, but Snape had taught Harry that the stronger the blue, the more memories that were stored inside.

Harry wandered over, looking down into the mist and testing to see if he could make any sort of sense out of the shapes. Dumbledore's face was easily recognizable, but there was a paler face, surrounded by black, that took Harry a bit longer to name. Harry crouched over the bowl, lowering his face to see if that would help, and nearly tipped over when he finally identified Snape, a much younger version, as the pale face.

“What?” Harry asked, his voice soft as he watched the memory Snape crying. That's what it looked like, at least, but Harry had never seen Snape cry. He couldn't believe it, and yet...there it was.

Deciding he still had some time left until Snape and Dumbledore returned, Harry took a deep breath and lowered his face further, deciding to see what exactly was bad enough to make Professor Snape cry.

That wasn't the memory he landed in though.

Dumbledore's office was sunnier, warmer,, and Harry stood beside the ornate wooden desk. Dumbledore, a much younger version, sat at the desk and stared at a chalkboard. The writing was neat and precise, with not a single letter corrected, as if it was a message that had been re-written and studied many times before.

_“The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches ... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies ... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not ... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives ... the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies ...”_

“How much did you hear?” Dumbledore pondered, tapping his fingers in front of himself as he looked down at a file on his desk. Harry was able to get close enough to glance at the top of the file, and see a photograph of a young and sullen looking Snape, in his uniform and scowling as he stood against the wall in the Great Hall. “And what have you decided to keep quiet?”

The office turned blurry, and Harry grabbed for the desk for something to keep hold of, but it vanished between his fingertips. A feeling of disgust swirled about in the new memory, like the branches and leaves twisting about in the late autumn storm. Severus Snape, dressed in once fine black robes, was on his knees in the cold night air, begging for his life...and then the life of another.

“Ah, yes,” said Dumbledore. “How much did you relay to Lord Voldemort?”

“Everything – everything I heard!” said Snape. “That is why – it is for that reason – he thinks it means Lily Evans!”

Harry didn't hear the next words, his mind stumbling over the revelation of the previous prophecy – was that the one Snape didn't explain on Christmas Eve? – and who told it, but he did feel the loathing in the memory intensify. Harry wasn't sure if it was just from the memory, or from himself.

“You disgust me,” said Dumbledore, staring down at the pleading Snape. Snape looked absolutely gutted, and like he'd willingly trade anything he had, his last scrap of possession, to get Dumbledore's help.

The memory changed again, and Harry watched as a broken Snape sat slumped in the very same office Harry was in now, his grief unhidden. He heard the promise with hollow ears, the sound almost tinny as Snape promised to protect Harry, as long as no one ever knew. Almost as if he was embarrassed to pay that penance.

_“No one must know!”_ Snape ordered, his voice still broken.

“No,” Harry muttered, falling out of the pensieve and almost tripping back onto the floor. “No, no.”

The chalkboard was no longer in Dumbledore's office, but Harry could still see it in his mind, and the prophecy was stuck in his mind. These were the words that had damned his family when he was a baby, and these were the words that were forcing him to fight again. He remembered what Snape had said last summer, regarding Voldemort. _'Because fighting Voldemort has never been something you've had a choice in.'_ And now Harry knew why.

It was either him, or Voldemort, one had to end the other, and Harry had the horcrux in his head that also need to be destroyed. He was going to die. He was the only one that had the chance of defeating Voldemort, and all those years ago, Snape had told Voldemort that. That's why his parents were dead – Voldemort had known Harry was coming, and tried to kill him before he was able to fight back.

Harry yanked at his hair as he paced the office, trying to make sense of the onslaught of new information. Why, if Snape had warned Voldemort of the prophecy, would he be begging for Dumbledore's help? He'd made it perfectly clear he didn't want anyone to know he was watching over Harry. It didn't make sense. It just...oh, his mother. Harry threw himself down on the couch and scrunched his eyes shut.

Lily Evans. She was the one sore spot Snape never seemed to want to talk about, and Harry suspected Harry wouldn't either, if he'd tried to save her and failed.

Her.

Harry released his hair and shot off the couch, going to stand over the pensieve. He wasn't going to enter the memories again, but he could still see the broken look on the swirling figure in the mist.

Snape had only asked to save her. The prophecy wasn’t even about his Mum, but that’s whom Snape had tried to protect. When he'd failed, it was only as an unwanted second option that he'd chosen to care for Harry, without anyone knowing. And that's still what it was, even now. Snape was taking care of Harry, guiding him to fight (of course, because of the prophecy), and not wanting anyone to know that he was Harry's guardian.

Harry looked out the window, at the cloudy and yet warm spring day they'd been treated to. He felt like an absolute fool. The Dursleys had done this when he was really young, when he hadn't learned that they thought it funny to pretend to treat him normally, and then knock him back down. Harry remembered the shopping trips in the summer for new clothes that were actually his, the training, the school help, the protection, and lastly, his room. He had his own room in Lower Tarrow, which Snape had made for him.

Was it all just a trick?

Harry looked at the mole on the inside of his finger, which was silent and plain looking. Snape was an extremely good liar, had to be if he was going to spy on the Death Eaters. So how could Harry find out if this was all just a lie? If Snape was going to drop him once Voldemort was gone, and once his debt for Lily's death had been paid?

A rather snide and dark part of Harry wondered if it was worth getting upset, as according to the prophecy, either he or Voldemort could live, not both, and Harry knew just how well he’d do facing Voldemort.

On the side table to his left, just between he and the fireplace, was a pot of Floo powder. Harry stared down at it for a second, glanced at the door, and then grabbed a handful. The fireplace roared green, and with a determinedly blank look, Harry stepped in and spun away.

…

He had to Floo to Diagon Alley to get out of Hogwarts, and then apparate because their own security wards at home were too tight. The house at Lower Tarrow was freezing, and he thought of leaving the door open a little to let a bit of the spring warmth in. Harry supposed that Snape turned off the heating while they were away at school, and he rubbed his arms as he walked through the flat. His room had an old jumper in it, so Harry put it on as he looked around. Everything was still as he'd left it last summer, and his bed was still the same. Nothing had been transfigured back.

Harry slumped down onto his bed, drawing his feet up and not caring that he still had his shoes on. His eyes were starting to hurt, and Harry threw his glasses down on to the bed, so he could rub his eyes. _Stop it,_ he told himself. But the words of the prophecy ran through his mind, over and over, and before he could control it, a sob escaped from within.

“Stop it,” Harry said aloud, as a tear ran down his cheek. “The Dursleys didn't care if you cried, and Snape doesn't either.”

Unhelpfully, his mind reminded him of the last training session in the Room of Requirement, when Snape had hugged him after the panicked quitting in the graveyard scene. _No_ , Harry thought again, the word echoing loudly in his brain. _Snape would do that for any of his Slytherins, he is a head of house._

Realistically though, Harry had never seen Snape be that demonstrative with anyone. Snape, as a younger man, had made a scrapbook of all the articles about Lily that he could, and Harry suddenly got the strong urge to see if there was anything like that of him in this house. Even just a single photograph.

He grabbed his glasses and stood up, roughly wiping the tear tracks from his cheeks. He went to Snape's desk in the kitchen, and looked around it. He even opened the drawers, but inside was filled with boring home ownership papers, and receipts. The last room Harry wanted to check (as he figured it wouldn't take long for Snape to start looking for him) was Snape's bedroom. Harry had never been in it before, save for one or two times he'd stuck his head in the door to see if Snape was awake.

Pushing open the door now, Harry saw that the room was fairly neat. The blue bedcovers were tidy, and there was a picture over Snape's headboard of a red Scandinavian house surrounded by blinding white snow. The side tables were orderly (hah, Harry thought, Snape used a Muggle alarm clock), and the cupboard revealed Snape's slightly more casual summer attire.

Not a single photograph was in the room.

It was a stupid thought, anyway, Harry knew. Harry himself didn't have many photos, just the album of his parents, and fourteen of himself, Ron, and Hermione. Harry knew the count, because he'd looked through them often enough.

Harry closed the door to Snape's room behind him. He could ask Dumbledore if Snape actually wanted Harry around, but Harry didn't feel like revealing such a weakness to the Headmaster. There had to be another way, that didn't involve cornering Snape and hoping the man didn't lie.

Harry started to walk back toward the front door when he looked at the wall and saw the portrait. It was the house portrait that Snape had two copies of, one here and one at Hogwarts. He lifted it easily from the wall and checked behind it, noting a small scribbled inscription in Snape's writing. Harry gave himself a short and not-really-happy smile, before walking out the front door. He double-checked that his disguise took hold – that he looked like John – before heading back to the apparition point. Maybe there was another way to check.

….

Snape rubbed his shoulder as they returned to Dumbledore's office. It had taken nearly forty-five minutes to complete their silly little dance of shrouded questions, during which Dumbledore confirmed Crouch's portkey making abilities, but did not yet call the man out on them. It would be fairly simple to amend Hogwarts’ wards to disallow portkey travel, and as their plan of attack hadn't been solidified yet, Dumbledore had decided not to show their hand to Barty Crouch.

“Have you found where Alastor Moody is?” Snape asked, unclasping his long teaching robes.

“Not as of yet,” Dumbledore replied. “We have his house under surveillance, but...”

“Where is he?” Snape bluntly interrupted, stopping in the middle of the office when he noticed how empty it was.

“Where is...?” Dumbledore asked, locking the door behind him. “Ah, perhaps the washroom?”

“He wouldn't travel by Floo to the washroom,” Snape scathingly said, pointing at the fireplace. There hadn't been a fire in it when they'd left, as it was mid afternoon and the spring day was rather warm. But there was a rather healthy fire going in it now, and the edges were still burning slightly green.

“Perhaps down to your rooms?” Dumbledore pondered, standing at the fireplace and waving his wand over it. Snape wasn't looking at that though, instead he was standing by the bookshelf where the pensieve was. The memories were still floating in the mist, and the scowl on Snape's face ran harsher as he recognised the two faces in the memory.

“Albus Dumbledore, what memories are in this pensieve?” Snape coldly asked.

Dumbledore turned from where he was crouched, and stood slowly.

“Hmm,” he said, staying well out of range of striking distance. “I'm afraid I had been doing a bit of research into prophecies, after you told me about Sybil's new one.”

“Do you mean to tell me,” Snape said, his voice only just containing his fury, “That you left a pensieve in a room with a fourteen year old boy, containing the very memories that prove I condemned him?”

“You didn't condemn him,” Dumbledore calmly said.

“I DIDN'T CARE ABOUT SAVING HIM!” Snape bellowed. “I was ready to sacrifice him and his father to ensure his mother survived, and now he knows that!”

“That was over a decade ago, Severus, and I am quite certain that Harry now knows how much you regret it,” Dumbledore broke in, his voice steady and strong.

“Is that so?” Snape snapped, slamming the pensieve cabinet door shut, and ignoring the several knick-knacks on the shelf that rattled ominously.  “You grew up in a loving family, so forgive me if I think your opinion is absolute rubbish.”

Dumbledore didn't flinch, but his eyes weren't as hard as they were seconds earlier.

“We don't know if he did see them. They are my personal memories, and as Harry knows what a pensieve is, he might not have looked,” Dumbledore reasoned.

Snape gave him an ugly look.

“Don't give me that nonsense. We are coming up to a battle, and you have made him your top soldier. He'll want to know what you're not telling him, and trust me, he knows you don't tell him everything.”

Dumbledore sighed, and looked regretfully at the pensieve.

“If I don't share everything, it is for his own good, no matter how much he wants to know.”

“Yes, well,” Snape said, feeling particularly vindictive. “One shouldn't eavesdrop at pub room doors either, but we do what we must for any advantage in such uncertainty. You have always overestimated the honour in those who have never had your sense of self esteem.”

Dumbledore nodded very slightly, his eyes having lost the sparkle that made him seem just slightly above human.

“Where shall we find him?”

“ _I_ will find him,” Snape corrected, heading for the fireplace. “This is my job to fix things.”

“Of course,” Dumbledore conceded. “But should you wish me to explain anything of the prophecy...”

Snape rolled his eyes in irritation.

“No. You always overdo the sentiment. It never works. I will find him, and explain why a prophecy foretells of his possible death, why I only asked for his mother's safety, and why I never wanted anyone to know I was helping the son of James Potter. Is there anything else in that damned pensieve I'm missing?”

Dumbledore had the grace to look guilty.

“I think you may be underestimating Harry's capacity for forgiveness,” Dumbledore softly said. “He knows now what happened in the past, but he's also seen what you've done to make up for it.”

Snape scoffed, and nearly tipped over the bucket of Floo powder as he grabbed a handful.

“He grew up in a home where his family actively hated him, and made no hesitation in telling him that he was unwanted. He's now seen those memories, and I'll tell you exactly what he's thinking now, Headmaster,” said Snape, throwing powder into the flames. “He's thinking I've just used him as a tool for my own redemption.”

Dumbledore's eyes shuttered, but before Snape allowed the man to irritate him further, he stepped into the flames and shouted out for Gryffindor Tower. Snape had an idea or two of where Potter would have gone, but it wouldn't hurt to check with his two idiot friends first.

….

Spinner's End was even chillier than Lower Tarrow, though Harry suspected it was the damp in the air that made it worse. The house looked just like it did in the picture, though the lines around the bricks and windows were less sharp, as they'd been weathered by the elements and age itself. Harry approached cautiously, not entirely certain of what the wards around the house were. He was walking slowly enough to feel them as he passed through, and they felt...warm.

The front step had a chunk missing out of the side of it, and the paint on the door was slightly scratched near the keyhole. The mail slot in the door was new though, and said 'SNAPE' on it. Harry took a deep breath to steel himself, and knocked on the door.

It opened a moment later, revealing a pale-faced woman who was of average height, and looked to be older than she probably was. She had a scowl on her face that was strongly familiar, and her wispy black hair was tied up into an untidy bun. She had thin lines around her mouth, the same ones Harry had seen on people who'd smoked for years, but her hands held nothing and she crossed her arms as she stared down at him.

“We don't want school calendars or whatever else you're sellin',” she said, bluntly but not rude enough to insult Harry.

“I'm not selling anything,” Harry responded, taking out his wand and holding it loosely in his hand. He knew it was a huge risk; that he didn't know (though by the resemblance, he knew he had to be right) if she was the right woman, but Harry figured he could just be mistaken for an odd boy with a stick if he were wrong.

He wasn't wrong. Her eyes gazed strongly at it, and Harry saw that she knew exactly what it was.

“Who are you, then?” she finally asked, and this time her eyes wandered, taking in all of Harry's features. She didn't recognise him, that was clear, but she was curious.

“John,” Harry answered, figuring he’d still be keeping things a secret if she didn’t know he was Harry Potter. “Your, uh, grandson, I suppose.”

Harry rubbed the toe of his shoe along the missing chunk of step.

“Son of a centaur,” she muttered, before opening the door wider and stepping back into the shadows of the hallway.

Harry was led through a small lounge and into a kitchen at the back of the house, where he was sat down at the table, and offered a glass of juice.

“How old are you, boy?” Mrs Snape asked, getting her own glass of something odd smelling and sitting at the table near him.

“Fourteen,” Harry replied. “And a half.”

She snorted, though it wasn't in a mean manner.

“Young people, always counting the half,” she said. There was an awkward pause of silence, and Harry could hear a clock ticking somewhere. “So, you’re Severus’s son.”

“Not biologically,” Harry honestly answered. “That’s actually why I came to meet to you.”

She studied him, completely relaxed in her kitchen and seemingly not bothered by the dishes piled up by the sink, nor the ratty tea towel hanging from the stove door.

“Prove it.”

“What?” Harry blinked.

“I've been magic all me life, boy, prove you aren’t lying.”

She sat calmly at the table, and though she was wearing an older style house dress and had no make up on, Harry could tell that Mrs Snape meant business, and wouldn't have any qualms enforcing it.

“Uh, well. He teaches at Hogwarts, potions,” Harry started. She scoffed and leaned forward.

“Anyone knows that,” Mrs Snape said. “When's his birthday?”

Harry grimaced.

“I don't know. He plays Nintendo, he lives in an old mill house, he brews in his kitchen, and when he eats pasta he dumps half the can of Parmesan cheese in.”

He held his breath, but she gave him a small and rather sly smile.

“That's my boy. What's your question then; you want to know if he’s always been a mean old man?” she asked, her posture more relaxed. “He’ll find out you’re here, if he don’t know already, John.”

Harry shrugged, and took a sip of juice. He could almost hear the younger Snape’s pleading in his mind, and knew the punishment for running here would be worth whatever answer he managed to get.

“Does he…when he does something wrong, does he work really hard to make up for it? Even if no one has asked him to?” Harry asked. His question wasn’t worded very well, but Harry didn’t want to bluntly ask if Snape’s mum knew her son had been the one to send the Potters to their deaths. And was now paying a hefty price for it.

He saw Mrs Snape glance up toward the top of the fridge, where an old tobacco tin rested.

“You could say that,” she finally answered. “What’s he done now?”

“Nothing,” Harry said, shaking his head. “Did he ever want children?”

“That’s what you came to find out?” she asked, sipping her water. “He kept you secret for fourteen and a half years, so you tell me.”

She sounded grumpy, and Harry had a flash of worry that he might be kicked out, until he realised that Snape’s mother was angry with Snape. Likely because Snape had never told her that he’d become guardian of a kid, and from the wistful expression sometimes on her face, Harry realised that Mrs Snape wasn’t happy about the secrecy.

“Only a year,” Harry answered, setting his juice glass down. “Not that long.”

He hadn’t really thought of what Snape’s parents would be like, and he was a bit surprised by how much alike Snape and Snape’s mother were, both in appearance and personality.

“You must’ve been some thirteen year old to make him do that,” Mrs Snape muttered. “He hates the kids he teaches.”

Harry winced at the answer, as it wasn’t what he wanted to hear. The entire time that he’d been staying with Snape, he’d felt like a normal boy. Sure, he’d been practising defence techniques, but Snape had never fallen for the Boy Who Lived rubbish, and Harry had been grateful for it. He really didn’t want confirmation that Snape had fooled him.

Mrs Snape sat in silence, watching Harry, and waiting for him to ask the rest of his questions. Upstairs Harry could hear a faint coughing sound, and the very slow movement of someone moving from one room to another.

“Is he…” Harry started, staring at the marked wooden kitchen table. “Would he adopt someone out of obligation?”

She rose from her seat before answering, filling her glass from the sink tap and looking out into the back garden from the little window.

“Your name isn’t John, is it? An’ you didn’t choose it?”

“No,” Harry said, shaking his head. Mrs Snape turned back to look at him.

“John was the name Severus called himself as a lad, when he wanted to be normal. When he hated his wizarding name,” Mrs Snape said, almost as if she were giving a lecture in a hall. “Doubt he’d give away such a name to someone he thought an _obligation_.”

Harry gave himself a small smile and rubbed his thumb along one particularly large gouge in the table edge. He didn’t feel completely reassured, but Mrs Snape made an excellent point. And the promise Snape had made to Dumbledore had happened almost fourteen years earlier, which was a lot of time for Snape’s opinion to change. Harry’s certainly had, as during his first and second years at school, he’d absolutely loathed the man.

Nodding, Harry stood up from the chair and brought the empty juice glass to the counter.

“I should go before he comes here and yells at me,” Harry said. “I look forward to properly meeting you, sometime soon”

She gestured to the door that lead to the lounge, and followed Harry through.

“Won’t hold me breath,” Mrs Snape muttered, before stopping Harry. “Why would you be an obligation?”

Harry raised his wand, hoping _finite incantatem_ worked. He felt a shivery cold pass through him, and saw Mrs Snape’s eyes widen.

“Bumblin’ Banshees, Harry Potter?” she said, the lines on her face gone slack.

“Yeah,” Harry said, pulling his glasses out of his pocket and putting them on. “That kid. Thanks for your help, Mrs Snape.”

Harry stepped down from the front door, glancing up and down the street, but not seeing Snape.

“Didn’t do much,” she said, standing in the doorway.

“You did. Hope I'll see you again this summer,” he said, looking up at Mrs Snape.

“Mm,” she agreed, glaring at a neighbour across the small street. “You force him to come here. And tell that idiot son of mine to fix whatever he did to make his lad think that he was unwanted.”

“Yes, Ma'am,” Harry smiled, zipping up his jacket.

“Closest apparition point is behind the house, through that alley,” she said, nodding to the narrow gap between the houses. “An' I won't ask how he taught you to apparate so young,” she continued, with a proud tone in her voice.

Harry nodded, and gave a little wave as he disappeared into the shadowed gap. She was right, as there weren't any windows into the alley, and it led to the back gardens of the houses, which were rather empty. He just needed to wait until the man smoking a fag at the end of the house's wall went back inside before he could apparate.

“Want one?” the man gruffed, holding up his cigarette. Harry realised he looked like a bit of a berk, standing in an alleyway and not moving. Suspicious, at the very least.

“Er, no thanks,” Harry replied, deciding to walk through and then double back once the man had left. The man simply shrugged, and as Harry got closer, ready to pass him, he noticed that the man was wearing tatty old clothes that rather blended in with the worn brick of the houses.

“Thought it was you,” the man growled, reaching out and snatching Harry's arm. “Not very smart, Potter, talking about your training in front of a _pet rat_.”

Harry's eyes widened as he looked up at the face of Peter Pettigrew.

“Wormtail! I...I saved your life last year,” Harry stammered, trying to wrench his arm free. “Dumbledore said...you owe me a life debt...”

Pettigrew smiled cruelly.

“Oh, but I'm not going to kill you, Potter. We're just going on a little _field_ trip.”

Pettigrew snapped them into apparition with a violent lurch, all the while Harry was pressing on his mole tattoo as strongly as he could.

…..

Snape immediately noticed the picture leaning against the wall, and glanced quickly at the front of it. No one was outside the stoop of Spinner's End, but that didn't mean John hadn't gone inside. When he found the boy they were going to have a long talk about the past and bloody running off.

Snape barely remembered to lock the door behind him as he strode away from the front of the house. He jumped up the steps to the road, and was half way across the bridge to the apparition point when the tattoo on his finger started beating wildly. Snape took off into a run, not even stopping properly in the apparition point before taking off.

Snape didn't bother going to Spinner's End. There was only one place Harry could be that would set off such a rapidly beating panic call. Little Hangleton.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The number of years thing - Harry is 14 and a half, the promise was given thirteen years earlier, but almost fourteen because Harry is almost fifteen and IT'S ALL MAD. Just run with how I've written the numbers please, it was all very irritating. ;)


	16. Chapter 16

“Well, well, this is earlier than expected,” a raspy voice said, from inside the sitting room with the high wing-backed chair. They’d apparated straight into the house, and Harry recognised the room instantly from his training episode. He felt a very slightly bit better, knowing that Snape had been there before. Snape had been to the room, the house, the town, knew the wards, and would know where to find Harry.

As he was pushed in front of Voldemort, Harry promised himself that he wouldn’t care if Snape did decide to get rid of him after the war, so long as the man came through and saved him now.

“You never did go with the plan, did you, Potter?” Voldemort continued, shifting in the chair. Harry watched, with a rather disgusted look on his face.

“Not when the plan is to kill me, no,” Harry answered. He winced internally; he was usually sarcastic when Uncle Vernon was yelling at him, but Harry hadn’t expected to have the same reaction when he met the adult Voldemort. He tried to calm himself, and remember what Snape had told him to do when they'd practised the 'taken' training. Naturally, his mind went completely blank.

“Pity,” Voldemort scoffed. “Your godfather fell right in line, twice.”

Harry narrowed his eyes at Voldemort’s triumphant sneer.

“What do you mean?”

“Convinced your dear old father to use Wormtail as his secret keeper, and then escaped last year after seeing Wormtail in the news,” Voldemort explained, laughing with a high-pitched wheeze. “Everyone’s been worried about Mad Sirius Black on the run, and no one’s noticed _us_.”

“Master, are you ready for the potion?” Pettigrew interrupted, wringing his hands. He didn’t look nervous though, Harry thought, but rather chuffed that he’d been the one to catch Harry.

“Yes, Wormtail, I have been ready for years,” Voldemort cuttingly said.

“You mean that no one has noticed you buying the potion ingredients,” Harry guessed, pulling together his thoughts. He noticed that Voldemort’s eyes had gone hard, which meant Harry was probably right. “Snape noticed. His ingredient seller noticed, and I’m sure Dumbledore noticed too.”

“And yet,” Voldemort bragged, “none of them were able to stop me. Rather pathetic of your mentors.”

Harry scowled as he flexed his wrists, but the leather cord Pettigrew had magically lashed around him was quite strong. He couldn't remember Snape ever telling him how to get out of such bonds, but Harry could still walk, and Pettigrew hadn't remembered to take his wand, so Harry counted those as positives.

“I shall ready the cauldron, Master,” Pettigrew said, pushing Harry toward a straight back wooden chair. Harry fell into it with a grunt, as Pettigrew continued to a slanted bookcase beside the fireplace. The shelf held a rather large box, and Harry had seen those types of boxes before, with the front clasp and sturdy sides. Snape had a bunch of them both at home and at school, filled with potion phials.

“Harry Potter, the last of his kind,” Voldemort wheezed, his voice taunting as he fought to sit up in the chair. He was about the same size as a toddler, Harry thought, and his limbs were long and spindly, like a Grindylow's. “Scared and confused, just like you were that Hallowe'en night. All alone.”

Voldemort had a nasty smile on his face, and Pettigrew was humming to himself as he clinked glass bottles together.

“But I'm not,” Harry strongly objected. “I have friends, and I have a family, and it doesn’t matter that they’re not here. I’m not alone.”

Just saying the words aloud made Harry feel better, and when he repeated them in his head, feeling Snape's heartbeat through his tattoo, Harry felt a small measure of confidence. Things weren't over yet, and Snape would get here soon. Snape had never passed up the chance to lecture Harry when Harry had done something wrong, and Harry had all but run away from school earlier. Snape would be here, Harry knew it.

“Your family?” Voldemort repeated, his laugh cold and rough sounding. “The only thing your family ever did was delay your death a little longer. Not very useful, is it, Potter? All of my family are dead, but you're about to see just how much better they are at keeping _me_ alive. Wormtail!”

Harry struggled as he felt himself rising from the chair, under a levitation spell by Pettigrew. Harry cursed to himself, as he'd wanted to leave tracks in the dust with his feet so that Snape could follow him. Nothing to it now though, just hope that Snape would know where they went.

“Time for a nice stroll outside,” Voldemort said, a twisted smile on his lizard-like face. “I'd hoped to do this at dusk, for the dramatic effect, but now that the guest of honour is here, there’s no need to wait.”

Harry watched with a sort of repulsed fascination as Voldemort, shrouded in rather old and dusty black material, floated along beside Harry. A thin talon of a finger reached out, and Harry flinched away, but Voldemort stopped just inches from his shoulder.

“Ah, not yet,” Voldemort taunted.

Harry did manage to bump into the back garden door as they passed through, hard enough that it didn't swing shut behind them. The flotation toward the graveyard was rough, as Pettigrew didn't take any care to keep Harry steady as they passed along. Harry's eyes darted about, looking for any sign that Snape was there. He saw nothing though, and forced himself to think of Hobbits to calm down.

“Tie him to the grave,” Voldemort ordered, as they approached the small clearing in the graveyard. Harry recognised it instantly, and his stomach churned as he was floated over the cauldron in the middle. The stone statue moved, and Harry only had time to yelp as the strong stone sceptre the statue held gripped him tightly against the grave.

“Go ahead and struggle, Potter,” Voldemort sweetly said, hovering by the cauldron. “It won't do you any good. Just a few minutes and this will all be over.”

Harry watched with growing panic, pressing repeatedly against his tattoo, as the ground beside him shifted. Out of the damp earth came a long bone, which looked sort of like it was a leg bone, but it was missing the knobby end at the knee, and it floated over to the cauldron. Voldemort crooked his finger, raising a potion phial from the box, and Pettigrew let out a happy half laugh as he added the potion and the bone into the cauldron together. A fire started under the cauldron with a snap of Pettigrew's fingers, and then they both turned to Harry.

“And now for your little donation,” Pettigrew said, starting to walk toward Harry.

“I'd rather just spit in it, if it's all the same to you,” Harry snapped, struggling against the unyielding stone.

“Oh, you've definitely been spending time around Severussss,” Voldemort reflected, with cold amusement. “But he's not here to help you, is he? How _sad_.”

“Dad!” Harry quietly pleaded, just as Pettigrew waved a small knife in his face. Pettigrew squeezed Harry's wrist hard enough to bruise, and slowly traced the edge of the knife along Harry's arm. Harry could see a manic glint to Pettigrew's eyes, and barely let himself breathe lest he flinch and get cut. There was a sudden booming crack to the north of them though, like a stray bolt of lightning, and Harry yelped as the knife flinched across his skin.

“Sloppy work, Wormtail,” Voldemort fumed. Pettigrew had turned his attention to the sound, and nicked Harry's arm with an erratic cut. Pettigrew raised the knife again, but Voldemort snapped at him.

“It'll do; I want him conscious for a duel.”

Harry ignored the tear rolling down his face as he watched Pettigrew smirk, holding the knife above the cauldron and dripping Harry's blood into it. He knew that Snape's potion would only work if Voldemort actually used it, which required Harry's blood. He'd known for a while that that was how it had to be, but Harry had always hoped that Snape would be there at the time, either watching under cover, or standing as a Death Eater, pretending. Now he was fighting off some serious panic that Snape wasn't coming at all.

“Why are you calling for your parents, Potter?” Voldemort snidely pondered, as he was floated above the cauldron. The robes fell away and Harry scrunched his face up at the repulsive sight. “They can't help you now.”

Seconds before dropping Voldemort in, Harry saw Pettigrew's knife flash as it swung up and then down, taking Pettigrew's hand with it. The pained howl of Pettigrew intermixed with the high-pitched laugh of Voldemort as the little lizard-like body he had dropped into the cauldron. Harry, sensing that Pettigrew was more focused on his bloody stump than on the statue’s spell, pushed with all his might against the stone sceptre. He managed to move it with a great shove, and slipped away behind the graves as Voldemort rose once more, as a man.

“Yessssss,” Voldemort hissed, his voice rising with power. “I have returned!”

He laughed to himself, staring up at the falling dusk, and Harry crouched as well out of sight as he could get. The heartbeat in his tattoo had sped up a little, which gave Harry a bit of hope that Snape was near.

“Must we really play hide and seek, _Harry Potter_?” Voldemort scolded. Harry could hear him testing a few non-verbal spells with his wand, and winced as he heard a gravestone be ripped from the ground.

“He's not gone far, Master,” Pettigrew wheezed out, his voice pained. “There are wards around...”

“Yes, I am aware,” Voldemort cuttingly said, silencing his servant. “But then, Potter has avoided his fate for fourteen years, so why not ten minutes more. Any questions, while we're at it?” Voldemort called, his pleased voice clear and loud throughout the entire gated graveyard.

“Yeah,” Harry suddenly said, breathing hard as he leaned against the gravestone. If he could keep Voldemort talking long enough, Snape could get there and Harry would have some help. He knew the prophecy named him as the one to defeat the Dark Lord, but it'd be nice to have back up. “Why would you risk it?”

“Risk?” Voldemort asked, his cold laugh giving Harry the chills. “You stupid boy. Did you ever think you had a chance? Other than by fluke?”

“No, but the prophecy,” Harry said, the anxiety making his voice higher pitched than normal. “You’ve only got a fifty/fifty chance, why would you…”

Harry glanced around the stone in time to watch the smug smile slipping off Voldemort’s face, replaced by one of confused anger.

“You don’t know,” Harry blurted, with a bit of a hysterical laughter. He conked his head back against the stone, but it didn't hurt. “You attacked my whole family, and you never knew the whole prophecy!” Harry yelled.

“I don’t need to know,” Voldemort roared, swirling his robes as he walked around the cauldron. Harry could hear his foot steps in the long grass, and scrambled to hide behind a different grave. “You are the only danger to me, _Potter_ , and you won’t be for much longer.”

Harry shook his head; his body covered in cold nervous sweat, and his voice calmer than it was before as he coldly recited.

_“The Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not ... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives.”_

Voldemort, who was facing the cauldron, tipped his head forward and to the side. Harry was watching between the blades of a shrub, and saw that he had Voldemort's full attention.

“And do you want to know the new prophecy? The power?” Harry demanded, thinking that the stress had finally made him go mad. He was taunting Voldemort, of all people.

“ _The end is set before the beginning…in the time of the shortest night…when the one marked as the Dark Lord’s equal meets the power of he with the greatest story never told…”_

Harry let it all out in a deep breath, panting as he struggled to keep as still as possible. Pettigrew was standing to the side of the cauldron, clutching his arm and fearfully watching Voldemort. Harry glanced about the graveyard quickly, but _of course_ Snape had missed the perfect entrance cue.

Voldemort turned to face the shrub Harry was in, his expression composed and covered with a dark smile.

“But here you are, all alone,” Voldemort commented, holding up his wand with his claw-like fingers, inspecting it to see that it was as he remembered. “Hiding like a baby from the bogeyman.”

“I am not alone,” Harry growled.

“Yes, so you’ve said,” Voldemort impatiently uttered, flicking his hand as if he cared not a whit what Harry had to say. “But I see no one here to help you, no one here at all except for Wormtail. And coward as he is, I don’t think even he would cross me.”

Wormtail shook his head profusely, flinching slightly in Voldemort’s shadow. Voldemort snarled at him, as if Wormtail's pained whimpering was irritating, and in a flash of light cast a spell that grew a silver hand over the end of Wormtail's stump.

“Th..thank you sir,” Pettigrew said, admiring his new hand with wide eyes. Voldemort completely ignored him.

“The end is set before the beginning, is it?” Voldemort repeated, chuckling and flexing the limbs of his new body. “Such a stupid trick of _words_! It means nothing, Potter. You’ve put your faith in _nothing_.”

“It means,” came a deep voice, speaking out from behind a dying box hedge. Harry noted that it was the exact same place Snape had stepped out of when he’d called time in the training exercise. “That your death happened before you even came back to life.”

Snape cast a strong enough protection shield that both stunning spells sent his way didn’t affect him, but he didn’t move any closer to the centre of the graveyard.

“Obviously not, as I am still here,” Voldemort smiled, clearly amused now that he had both Harry cornered and an audience to watch. “Or did you mean your little potion switch, _Rosier_?”

Snape raised his eyebrow, but didn’t confirm anything.

“I knew Rosier had never been bright enough to learn to brew,” Voldemort continued, walking slowly toward Snape. “I suspected you from the very start, and I was right. It was all in the potion.”

“Yes,” Snape conceded, his dark eyes flickering between Voldemort and the area where Harry was hiding. “But mostly in the bones.”

“What?” Voldemort seethed, forgetting about Harry instantly.

Snape gestured back to the grave Harry had been bound to, to the inscription on the stones.

“Rather interesting how powerful wizards never remember to include house elves in wards,” Snape explained, his voice carrying clearly over the graveyard.

“I changed them enough that you took too long getting here,” Voldemort snarled. His wand emitted a small spark of light green, and Harry's eyes widened. Voldemort hated Harry, but it seemed like Snape was really getting under his skin.

“Did you?” Snape slyly asked in return. “You needed your father’s genes to bring you back, but I’m afraid I’ve no idea how long a Basilisk’s bone will sustain you.”

Harry let out an involuntary snort as he saw the fury building on Voldemort’s face. Basilisk DNA, and maybe venom too. Snape was a bloody genius. And it was obvious now that Harry thought about it, as Voldemort had no hair, no nose, and snake-like eyes.

“GraaaAAAAAHHH!” Voldemort howled, sending a ball of fire toward Snape. Harry flinched, but Snape seemed to have been expecting something like it, because he had his shields stronger than ever.

“You only think you’ve won,” Voldemort warned, panting as if the giant arc of fire had cost him a great deal of energy. “Standing calm and collected, as you’ve always been. Except when you’re angry, and the fury of Severus Snape is released. You made the perfect Death Eater in your youth, always so creative in your ways to prove yourself.”

Snape stood impassively as Voldemort talked, but Harry could see that he was trying to work out what was going to happen next. If the Basilisk bones and poison would kill Voldemort very soon, there might not be a battle, which would of course be ideal. Harry wasn't sure how much the wards had changed, and as it had taken Snape twenty minutes to break through, any battle would be a direct two on two.

“And look at you now,” Voldemort continued, his face twisted into a cragged grin, “not even a tremble as you and the Boy Who Lived come to your last moments. Not a flinch. You think you’ve won. But I won’t be the one to die tonight.”

Harry could feel Snape's heartbeat though, and knew Snape was worried. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, to keep Snape on track, but he only got the word _'Dad'_ out before a bright green light slammed into the shrub and him, and took the world away.

…..

 

When Harry opened his eyes again, he was in a dim and yet very comfortable room. It was warm and quiet, and Harry sat at a small wooden booth, surrounded by blurry photos on the wall and carved names in the table in front of him. He looked to his left and saw a very familiar bar, but Tom wasn’t standing behind it.

“You won’t see anyone else here,” a soft voice said, and Harry startled badly as a red-haired woman slipped into the booth with him.

“Mum?” Harry asked, his expression slack with shock. “And…Dad?”

His father deposited a tray on the table before sitting down, his smile just as wide as Lily’s.

“You have done an amazing job, Harry,” Lily said, taking a cup from the tray. Harry blinked rapidly, saying nothing and barely noticing the cup his father placed in front of him.

“I’ve noticed you like coffee now,” James said, sipping from his own mug.

“But…” Harry started, looking around the Leaky Cauldron again. The recognition seemed to slam into him at once, but Harry had never before seen the place empty. “Oh no, I’m dead, aren’t I?”

“Not quite,” his Mum said, with a small laugh. “You could be, if you really wanted to. But I think you’ll go back soon.”

“I don’t understand,” Harry said, shaking his head. “I...”

The realisation of whom he was talking to surrounded him, _his Mum and Dad_ , and Harry suddenly found it hard to swallow. “I’ve missed you so much.”

“We know, Harry,” James kindly said, reaching over to squeeze Harry’s hand. For all the tales Harry had heard about his father, he saw nothing of the reckless boy that James had once been. Instead, the man across the table was patient and soft spoken; the attributes of a man who has had to watch by the side lines for many years. “And we're sorry.”

“We’ve never left you, Harry,” his Mum said, her voice soft and soothing. “Every day we were there, watching over you. And we still will, once you go back.”

Harry gripped the coffee mug with his free hand, not wanting to taste the bitter liquid, but needing the heat. He was here, at the Leaky Cauldron, in some sort of half dead stated, where he could see his parents. He could finally talk to his parents, touch them, hug them, and not be stuck with some memory of the night they’d died, or looking wistfully at them through a mirror.

“But I don’t want to go,” Harry said, his voice rough, but not quite breaking.

“You needn’t yet,” James reassured, squeezing Harry’s hand. “We have a few minutes still, and wouldn’t you like to know how you survived? Or ask us questions about weird family habits?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Harry sniffled, with a self-depreciating laugh. Of course he couldn’t stay. He could feel a tear at the edge of his eyes, but he didn’t care if his parents saw it as well.

“All the books talk about your mother, and how she gave her life to protect you,” James said, and Harry felt another wave of sadness wash over him.

“I know the story,” Harry grumbled.

“They never seem to remember that I did, too,” James added. Lily gave him a knowing smile, before they both turned back to Harry. “And even Severus helped this time.”

“You saw all the training?” Harry asked, looking between his parents to catch any signs of displeasure.

“We saw so much more,” Lily replied, without elaborating.

“The training,” James agreed, nodding. “Which you did very well at; you might want to consider being an Auror one day. But also the Basilisk bones, that was Severus. I gave my life to protect you, but he also managed to weaken Voldemort enough to diminish the Killing Curse.”

“So I'm just unconscious then?” Harry asked, looking around the empty pub. This was all in his head?

“More like half dead,” Lily said, smiling. “But yes. You're in between life and death, and that's how we're able to see you again.”

“But this is it, isn't it?” Harry continued, swallowing around a lump in his throat. “I won't see you anymore once I leave.”

“Not like this, son,” James replied, with a kind laugh. “If you come this close to death again, I think you'll finally give old Snape a heart attack.”

“He's not that old,” Harry said, smiling even though tears were flooding his eyes. “And he's all right, when he's not trying to be big and scary. Sirius is having a bit more trouble with things, I think.”

“Ah, Sirius,” James repeated, a wistful look in his eyes. “If he stays with Remus, he'll be all right.”

James leaned back in the seat, releasing Harry's hand and putting his arm across the back of Lily's shoulders.

“You've turned out well,” James said, approvingly.

“Thanks,” Harry said, inexplicably embarrassed. He supposed that as he'd never really received any praise growing up, he wasn't quite sure how to accept it. “Wait, what weird family habits?”

His parents laughed, and Harry felt a strong warmth in his stomach when he realised he had the same laugh as his father.

“You love the smell of vanilla?” James asked, a big grin on his face. “So does your mother.”

“You get your knobby toes from your father,” Lily returned, crossing her arms with a smile.

“We both like honey on chicken,” James said, pondering aloud.

“What about reading?” Harry asked, looking between his parents. He finally took a sip of the coffee his father had served, and was temporarily distracted by how perfect it tasted.

“Well, your Dad never bothered to study much at school,” Lily answered, with a fond smile. “But he loves to read when it isn't something required.”

“As does your Mum,” James added.

Harry beamed.

“So even though I didn't grow up with you, I still turned out like you.”

“Well,” James said, boasting a little. “Don't want to sound too proud...but yes.”

He reached across the table and messed Harry's hair up. “But you're a lot braver than we'll ever be.”

“I’m not sure about that,” Harry said, a frown forming. The edges of the Leaky Cauldron around them were starting to lose their sharp appearance, and his parents seemed to notice as well.

“We have to go soon,” Lily sighed, looking up at the grey clouds above them.

“But I won't see you ever again,” Harry blurted, reaching across the table for their hands once more.

“Not until it's your time,” James said, giving Harry's hand a squeeze.

“You'll see us in your dreams, Harry. And we’ll be here waiting for you,” Lily said, softly. “Go back, my little Hobbit. You have plenty of people who need you.”

All three stood up, the booth vanishing in front of them as Harry kept a tight hold on his mother's hand.

“Muuum,” Harry mock complained, trying to prolong the moment. “Am I not going to get any taller?”

“Only a little more,” she said, smiling indulgently and wiping the tears from his cheeks. His father patted him on the back, and Harry gave him a slightly unsure look.

“You’re really okay with him…stepping in? I do call him Dad,” Harry admitted.

“I know you do,” James replied. “It would bother me if I were alive of course, but I’m not, and I can’t be there for you like I want to. He turned out a good man, Snape. A good man that went to war for you. I couldn’t ask for a better stand in.”

Harry nodded, moving closer to give his parents a good-bye hug. He was wrapped in very strong arms, and Harry could smell flowers from his Mum's hair, and feel the rough hands of his father keeping him close.

“Say hi to Sirius for us, and tell him his shoulders aren't big enough,” James said, talking into Harry's hair. “He'll know what it means.”

Harry nodded, not wanting to waste a second with his parents by asking what the cryptic message meant.

“How do I go back?” Harry asked, speaking into the shoulder of his Mum's dress.

“Just listen,” she whispered. “Listen for him.”

Harry shut his eyes, focusing so strongly on the feeling of the hug, that he didn't notice the frantic deep voice calling his name until it coincided with the drumbeat in his finger.

“John!”

Fingers were clenched around his arms, hard enough to bruise, and the silence of the Leaky Cauldron was slowly being invaded by the sound of birds chirping.

“Potter, I swear to god.”

The muttering came from somewhere above Harry, close to him, and Harry wondered who could be that tall.

“John, wake up,” said the voice again, and Harry opened his eyes. He wasn't standing though, like he'd thought, but sprawled on the ground and was being partially held against Snape's chest.

“Ow,” Harry whispered, as the feeling in his body came rushing back and a stabbing pain echoed across his forehead.

“Hit with the Killing Curse and 'ow' is what you have to say?” Snape grumbled.

Harry became aware of a lot of shouting in the background, but couldn't lift his head up to look around.

“What were you expecting? ‘It’s turned into a lovely evening?’” Harry asked, wincing.

“Very amusing,” Snape dryly replied, though Harry thought he could hear a bit of panic in Snape’s voice. The drumbeat in Harry’s finger was strong enough to make it twitch on its own. “What is your full name?”

Snape was checking Harry’s pupils with his wand light, and Harry fought the urge to tell him to piss off.

“That’s a trick question. What happened?”

“You died, you idiot boy,” Snape growled. Harry felt the arms around him tighten, and then he was lifted up off the ground. He remembered what his mother had said, ‘other people need you,’ and realised she had meant Snape.

“Severus!”

“You can put me down,” Harry said, blinking as he looked back at the graveyard. Several people wearing bright red robes were walking around, and Pettigrew was being bound with thick black chains. A group of guards were standing by a shrouded black figure, which was leaning against a headstone.

Snape put Harry down, and caught him again seconds later when Harry's knees buckled.

“Is he all right?” Dumbledore pressed, running up to them.

Harry nodded, leaning against Snape with Snape's arm across his chest to keep him from falling.

“Bit tired,” Harry said, as if he’d just gone for a long run. Harry suspected his brain hadn’t quite caught up with the fact that he’d been half-dead.

“And injured,” Snape added, his voice serious. “Is it safe to return to Hogwarts?”

“Yes,” Dumbledore confirmed, leaning in to look at the scar on Harry's forehead. “Barty Crouch was detained as soon as I received your patronus.”

“We shall leave then,” Snape said, pushing Harry upward a little. “Before the vultures arrive.”

Dumbledore nodded, taking a Muggle 50p coin out of his pocket and muttering a charm at it.

“Straight to the hospital wing with you,” Dumbledore said, turning to stand between them and the crowd, so their departure would not be noticed as much.

Harry nearly fell again as they landed, but he caught himself on a bedrail before crashing to the floor.

“All right,” Snape muttered, putting his hands under Harry's arms and hoisting him up onto the bed. They'd landed in some sort of private room, and Harry was grateful for the solitude. There were normally at least one or two students in the hospital wing at any given time, and Harry didn't want to be on display.

“Madame!” Snape called, shutting the window blinds. Before Harry could protest, Madame Pomfrey hustled in, a washbasin in her arm.

“Severus, this is the staff…” she started, glancing between Harry and Snape. “Ah.”

Snape gave a half smile, and moved toward the bed. “Cut on the arm, and a curse recovery scan. Please.”

“Curse?” she asked, ignoring Harry completely.

“The Killing Curse,” Snape softly said. Harry took his glasses off, unsure of how long he'd be in the hospital wing, but rather glad of the fact that he was now safe. He handed them to Snape, and closed his eyes, trying to remember the Leaky Cauldron and every single word his parents had said.

“Stay awake,” Snape ordered, tapping the back of Harry's hand.

“M'awake,” Harry muttered.

He heard Madame Pomfrey tsk as she cleaned the cut Pettigrew had made, and Snape's low voice explaining what he knew of the graveyard scene.

“Is he really back?” she quietly asked, casting a spell over Harry’s body that made him feel quite warm.

“He was,” Snape answered. “But he won’t ever be again.”

….

Ten minutes after the exam was finished, after Madame Pomfrey had pronounced him ‘exhausted, but physically okay,’ Harry sat in the bed and wondered when he could leave. He didn’t feel tired, at least not mentally, and he felt a bit jumpy being hidden away in a hospital room, without knowing what was going on outside. He’d heard Snape tell Pomfrey that Voldemort was dead, but Harry wanted to hear it from someone else. Everyone else.

Not long after he’d seriously considered wandering out, the door to the room opened, and Snape entered with Ron and Hermione.

“HARRY!” Hermione yelped, running toward the bed and giving him an awkward hug.

“Close call there, mate,” Ron commented, his eyes bright as he approached.

“Think I’ve had enough of those, for a while,” Harry said, with a half laugh.

“What happened then?” Ron asked. “First you’re gone on a training session, then Snape yells at us, and now everyone’s saying that Professor Moody was arrested.”

Ron plopped himself down on the foot of the bed, and Hermione took the visitor’s chair. Harry looked up toward the door, but Snape had vanished.

“Well, you were right, Hermione,” Harry started, very glad that Snape had given them the opportunity to talk about this now, without a single other person around. “He does make a good guardian, and he’s apparently been doing it since I was a baby.”

Hermione nodded in understanding, but Ron scrunched his face up in disbelief.

“Snape? SNAPE?”

“Yeah,” Harry answered, watching his friend carefully. “Snape. The one who’s been training me.”

“Snape hates you. Hates all of us,” Ron said, as if he were giving Harry a stern reminder.

“Probably,” Harry evenly agreed. “He definitely wasn’t happy with me earlier. But he did just help me kill Voldemort.”

There was a moment of silence as the two of them stared at each other, and Hermione shot up in the chair.

“What?”

“Hang on,” Ron said, “kill Voldemort?”

“I thought Crouch…” Hermione started, looking very confused.

“He was going to do something,” Harry said, nodding. “But I uh, saw something in Dumbledore’s office earlier, and went for some fresh air.”

Hermione crossed her arms, giving Harry a Look. “Where did you go for fresh air?”

“Home,” Harry answered, picking at the blanket on the bed. “And then about. Anyway, Scabbers –Pettigrew– he found me and apparated me to where Voldemort was hiding.”

“Oh Harry,” Hermione said, her fingers pulling the fabric of her jumper. Ron was sitting quietly, but he was listening intently.

“It was a house that we’d seen before. Snape had been there, and he trained me to know the inside of house. I have a way to contact him, if I’m ever in trouble, so that’s what I did.”

Harry watched the varying expressions on his friends’ faces as he continued the story, and he noted that Ron looked very green when Harry mentioned getting cut and his blood being added to the potion. Hermione looked very interested when Harry explained how Snape had switched the bones, and Ron even looked a bit impressed when Harry described the ball of fire that Voldemort threw at Snape.

Harry didn’t tell them about meeting his parents at the Leaky Cauldron. They looked upset enough that Harry had nearly died (again), and it was something he wanted to keep to himself for now.

“But I’m all right now,” Harry quietly said. “And it’s because of Snape.”

Harry gave Ron and Hermione a minute to digest what he’d said. He checked his arm, running his thumb along the skin where Pettigrew had cut him, but Madame Pomfrey had done a very good job and there was no mark whatsoever.

“Why’s he always such an arse, then?” Ron finally said, crossing his arms.

“I don’t know,” Harry said, shrugging, but looking pointedly at his friend. “He was born that way. So was Percy, and so was Dudley.”

“Oh for,” Hermione muttered, standing up from her chair and walking over to the window to peer outside. “Ron, he just saved Harry from You Know Who. If Harry's all right with Snape as his guardian, does it matter? Maybe Snape isn't mean when he's not...around other people.”

“Percy is an arse sometimes,” Ron conceded, ignoring Hermione completely.

“Right?” Harry said, with a tentative grin. “Look, Ron, he’s not your dad, but he’s become mine. And I think he’s proved that he’s good at it, so…yeah. I don’t want to change things.”

“I thought he was just helping you train for all this,” Ron replied. He still sounded a bit confused, and Harry was a bit amused that Ron’s biggest issue was Snape becoming his guardian, and not that he’d almost fought Voldemort alone.

“No,” Harry replied, looking down at his hands. The tattoo had stopped beating, but it was there, permanently, and Harry was happy to see it. “Well yeah. But I think he meant it for longer.”

Ron nodded, but he was staring at the blankets on the bed, and Harry figured his friend would maybe need to see that Snape could actually be nice, before he was okay with things. Hermione, who wasn't as surprised as Harry thought she would be, was still looking out past the curtains.

“Are you going to still keep this a secret?” Hermione questioned.

“For a while,” Harry said, turning his head to face her. “I still have to tell Sirius.”

Harry was startled by a sudden snort of laughter, and whipped his head around to see Ron covering his mouth.

“I forgot about Sirius,” Ron grinned. “Oh he’s going to be mad.”

“Ron, that’s not funny. It’s not going to be easy for Harry to tell Sirius,” Hermione huffed, rolling her eyes. She walked back toward the bed and Ron slipped off, staying neatly out of smacking range.

“Yeah, but if he does it when Snape’s there too, it might be funny to watch,” Ron pointed out. “Ugh, Snape's going to make you a Slytherin now, isn't he?”

Ron's expression at the end of the sentence was almost comically horrified, and Harry smirked.

“No,” Snape replied, standing in the doorway. “Because wherever Potter ends up, you two aren’t far behind, and I do not want to deal with the three of you for the rest of your time at Hogwarts. Let Gryffindor lose the house points for troublemaking.”

“We don't go looking for trouble,” Harry said, crossing his arms in a mirror image of Snape.

Snape raised his eyebrow in sarcastic disbelief, while Harry and Ron glared at him.

“Well, it is more like bad luck...” Hermione offered.

“Not a word,” Snape said, holding up his hand and rolling his eyes. “Potter, you've a meeting with the Headmaster in ten minutes. Your friends can meet you later.”

“All right,” Harry said. “I don’t have to come back here, do I?”

“Not unless you face plant on the stairs on your way to the office, no,” Snape sarcastically responded. Ron’s jaw dropped, and Hermione’s eyes widened.

Snape uncrossed one arm, and pointed at Ron and Hermione.

“Nothing said in this room will be repeated, until you have permission. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Hermione agreed. Ron just nodded.

Harry waited until the door closed, before grinning.

“He’s really not so bad,” Harry said. “He even has a collection of old matchbox cars.”

….

Dumbledore's office had a rather large round table set up in it, with several chairs around it and a tea set in the middle. Snape was sitting in the chair nearest the couch, listening to the Headmaster pace and ramble.

“You used a Basilisk bone?” Dumbledore asked, glee in his eyes. “And yet, you didn’t know of the horcruxes when you’d switched it?”

“The house elf had just finished switching them when you informed Potter and I of the horcruxes,” Snape confirmed, watching Harry slip around the table to pick a chair.

“And of all odds to use that animal...” Dumbledore pondered, stroking his beard.

“It wasn't luck,” Snape grumpily said. “I needed bones different enough to cause a problem with the regeneration. Hospitals don’t exactly give away body parts, so I went where I knew the biggest pile of similarly sized bones would be. I straightened a few to resemble human bones, and put the venom in the marrow.”

“The Chamber of Secrets,” Dumbledore breathed. “My boy, every once in a while I seem to misremember how intelligent you are. And then am spectacularly reminded.”

“Thank you, Headmaster, for the insult and compliment,” Snape muttered. The door opened just as Harry sat in his spot, admitting several people wearing the same red robes Harry had seen at the graveyard, along with Cornelius Fudge, the Minister for Magic.

“No press today, Cornelius?” Dumbledore asked, welcoming them all with a smile.

“Not ever for this type of meeting,” Fudge replied, and he wore a smile as well, though it was not a pleasant one.

Harry felt more than a little out of his league, but Snape was sitting beside him, looking bored, so Harry took a bit of comfort in that. He was at least grateful that that awful Skeeter woman wasn't allowed in.

“We can confirm then, that the greatest threat to Wizarding kind in the twentieth century is officially dead? Without any chance of returning?” Fudge asked, settling into his chair as the Aurors started taking notes.

Dumbledore glanced for the barest second toward Snape and Harry, before nodding.

“I am happy to say that it's true,” Dumbledore agreed. “Though I think this is a tale that we should start from the beginning."

Harry relaxed his posture as he listened to Dumbledore speak, rather impressed at the tale that the Headmaster was spinning. It was mostly the truth, though Dumbledore focused on the prophecy, and glossed over the training. The Great Circles were mentioned, and Harry thought it rather funny how Dumbledore used the novelty of those to detract focus away from teaching such a young student how to apparate. Harry’s running away was mentioned, but the reason given was due to stress from the upcoming final tournament task. Dumbledore then became very specific in his retelling, and asked Harry a few pointed questions. The Headmaster seemed to have a fairly good idea of what had happened between the time Pettigrew had kidnapped Harry and Snape had arrived to the graveyard, but Harry didn't fill in much of the details. He remembered the taunting, and the cut on his arm, but kept his mouth shut. The Aurors and the Minister didn't need to know how scared Harry had been.

“Did you actually cast any spells, Harry?” Fudge asked, after he'd taken time to process all he'd been told. Harry was a bit blindsided by this stern, professional version of Fudge, as it was nothing like the cheery image he presented to the press.

“Uh, no, I don't think so,” Harry said, furrowing his brow as he tried to remember. He'd used his panic button of a tattoo plenty of times, but couldn't remember ever casting a spell at either Voldemort or Pettigrew.

“Very good,” Fudge said, nodding to himself. Harry didn't understand how that was good at all, but didn't want to ask.

“And you, Snape?”

“Personal shielding spells, a binding spell, and a very strong rennervate,” Snape reeled off. He did not volunteer anything else.

“And how long did it take, from the time of the regeneration, to the time of death?” one of the Aurors asked.

“Approximately ten minutes, I believe,” Dumbledore answered.

“Far too long,” Snape muttered, earning the sympathetic nod of an Auror.

“What, exactly, was the cause of death?” Fudge asked. His eyes were flickering around the room as he interviewed them, as if he were already planning the next few important steps in this Voldemort-free world.

“Basilisk venom,” Snape answered. “Over the past nine months the pattern in rising stock prices for rare potion ingredients pointed toward the possibility of three certain potions in a testing stage. Only one potion on the list is capable of bringing a destroyed human back to life, and it requires a donation of flesh, blood, and bone. Bone is easiest to poison without detection.”

There was half a minute of stunned silence in the room, before one of the Aurors, who looked to be in charge by the badge on his robe, spoke with a very sarcastic tone.

“Still working for the good side, Snape?”

Snape had a pained smile on his face, but Harry could tell that he was amused.

“If it’s all the same to you, Cornelius, I’d like to discuss what information is released to the public,” Dumbledore said, gesturing toward the folded _Daily Prophet_ on the table.

Fudge looked between the Aurors at the table, and then to Snape and Harry.

“That won’t be a problem, Albus,” Fudge answered. “I wasn’t planning on releasing anything.”

“What?” Harry asked, glancing between Dumbledore and Fudge. “You’re not going to tell people he’s dead?”

Snape drummed his fingers once, strongly, right next to Harry’s hand. Harry got the warning, and stayed quiet.

“Most of the public, save for a few conspiracy theorists, have believed You Know Who dead since the night you defeated him, Harry,” Fudge explained. Fudge spoke in a level tone, and Harry appreciated that he wasn’t being spoken to as a child.

“The remaining Death Eaters have also known that he was not dead,” Snape idly pointed out.

Fudge cleared his throat and looked straight at Snape.

“Quite. The Ministry is of the belief that it is beneficial that the general public does not learn of these horcruxes, nor any other means of making oneself immortal.”

Dumbledore inhaled sharply.

“Censorship is a slippery slope, Cornelius.”

“It’s not censorship,” Fudge said, giving Dumbledore a sly smile. “It’s a cover-up. No books, articles, nor educational materials regarding horcruxes will ever be censored. However, You Know Who is generally believed to be dead, and we’d rather not raise the alarm that he has, in some capacity, still been alive and able to rebuild his army.”

“Hmm,” Dumbledore hummed.

“What will you say, then?” Harry asked, seeing that no one else had any questions at the moment. “Everyone knows something’s happened.”

“It will be reported that Bartemius Crouch was arrested at Hogwarts, charged with impersonation and kidnapping. The reason for such offenses will be explained as an attempt to throw the tournament.”

Fudge glanced at his Aurors before continuing.

“Bartemius Crouch _senior_. How the son escaped Azkaban is still under investigation and will be kept quiet.”

Snape nodded, and Harry found himself nodding as well. Harry was beginning to like the idea that people weren’t going to know what happened. He had enough of being the Boy Who Lived now, and didn’t want to imagine the attention he’d get if everyone knew he’d survived the Killing Curse a second time.

“Are we in agreement?” Fudge asked, closing his notebook.

Dumbledore turned to look at Snape, and Harry watched the flickering eyelids. More non-verbal communication, or perhaps Dumbledore also knew legilimency and they had some sort of memory sharing system worked out.

“So long that is it understood, should this ever be exposed, that the cover up was fully the idea of the Ministry,” Snape said.

Fudge smiled.

“And you are absolved of all wrongdoings?”

“I am the boy’s guardian,” Snape answered, smiling in return. “If something does get out, it’ll be me you hear from.”

Fudge did a double take at that.

“I see,” Fudge said, collecting his papers. “A former Death Eater and a prison escapee. Interesting guardians you have, Mr Potter.”

“It’s just the Death Eater, actually,” Harry smartly said, looking squarely at Fudge. “But Sirius shouldn’t have been in prison at all. He’s innocent, and you’ve got Peter Pettigrew in custody.”

“Yes we do,” one of the Aurors acknowledged. “And he will be questioned.”

Dumbledore rose from the table, starting off a chain reaction of chairs scraping as the meeting drew to a close.

“I’m quite certain Sirius Black will be happy to provide a statement under veritaserum, if he is for once granted a fair trial,” Dumbledore spoke.

The Auror paused, but Fudge nodded. “Have him offer to surrender, in return for information on the whereabouts of Peter Pettigrew.”

“In two weeks?” Dumbledore enquired.

Fudge considered this for a moment, and Harry wondered if two weeks was enough time between the stories of ‘Crouch Fixes Tournament’ and ‘Sirius Black Surrenders’ would be enough to not raise suspicions of a link between the two.

“Two,” Fudge agreed. “If necessary, he can explain his timing due to concerns regarding Potter’s safety in the tournament.”

Dumbledore nodded, and explained that a few other people knew what had happened with Voldemort, but that they would be sworn to secrecy before the _Evening Prophet_ was delivered. Harry remained quiet as the Aurors and Fudge each walked to Dumbledore’s fireplace and Flooed back to the Ministry. Harry was more than a little chuffed that he’d been allowed to stay for the meeting, as in twenty minutes and by less than ten people, Voldemort’s demise was planned to be officially misreported, and Sirius was going to get a chance to prove his innocence.

_…_

 

Snape walked with Harry back to Gryffindor tower, his dark cloak swirling behind him. Most of the students were in their dorms or at study hall, as it was past dinner now, but a steady murmur of chatter could be heard throughout the halls. It seemed like just a regular school day for everyone, though Harry felt a year older than he had been in the morning.

“Can't I sleep downstairs?” Harry asked, keeping his voice low.

“Only on the weekends,” Snape dryly said, looking straight ahead. “Though it’s against the school rules. You need to speak to your friends tonight.”

“Yeah, I know. Do you think Fudge will do as he says, Da...er. Professor?” Harry questioned.

“The Minister has weighed both sides carefully and determined, correctly, that the fall back of not detecting You Know Who’s presence for fourteen years would not be sufficiently countered by the report that two people, who do not work for the Ministry, finished him off,” Snape evenly replied, with a small smirk.

Harry laughed quietly, feeling that his steps were lighter. Voldemort was finally gone! He had a wide smile, but it started to slip as he replayed the events of earlier in his mind.

“Sir?” Harry asked, glancing up ahead, and then behind them. “The promise you made, that wasn't just for my mother, right? You do want...I can stay?”

Snape's steps slowed, but he didn't answer right away. Instead, he pushed Harry toward a classroom, flicking on the lights as they entered and then closing the door.  Harry waited while Snape checked for ghosts, and then finally cast a privacy spell.

“You ran away this afternoon, after seeing what was in the pensieve,” Snape said, and it was not a question.

“Yes,” Harry miserably replied, walking up to a windowsill and looking out over the dark courtyard below. “Fourteen years ago you didn't want to protect me.”

Snape remained by the door.

“You weren't my primary concern,” Snape allowed.

“I wasn't _any_ concern,” Harry corrected, shaking his head.

“Perhaps not,” Snape quietly said. “Not then.”

“Your Mum told me what the name John means,” Harry said, turning and looking straight at Snape. He didn't miss the scowl that instantly darkened Snape's face.

“It's a biblical name,” Snape started, the barest trace of a smile forming on his face when Harry rolled his eyes.

“ _Dad_. She told me what you used to use it for,” Harry interrupted.

“I'm sure she did,” Snape calmly agreed. There was a moment of silence that seemed to be comfortable for Snape, but Harry was waiting for some sort of response. Finally, just as Harry was about to demand to know if Snape still wanted to be his guardian, Snape started to talk.

“Your mother was my only childhood friend, even after I came to Hogwarts,” Snape said, looking beyond Harry and out the window. “This changed after an incident at school, but I did not forget my first friend. Just as I suspect, as angry as you may sometimes be, you will always look out for Granger and Weasley. I wanted to protect her, and in my panic, only thought of her. It was a natural reaction, and one I am not sorry for.”

Snape's voice didn't waver as he spoke, but he still didn't meet Harry's eyes.

“I do regret the secrecy,” Snape continued, “especially now that I see how studious you have become under proper guidance and encouragement.”

Harry's eyes widened at the praise, and he mentally kicked himself for having such little faith in Snape, when the man had spent a year and a half proving to Harry not only that he cared, but that his horrid professor personality wasn’t the only one Snape had.

“And I've misplaced the guardianship papers. You're stuck, in any event,” Snape finished off, finally looking at Harry and giving him a smug look.


	17. Chapter 17

A day after the arrest of Crouch, and the unreported death of Voldemort, Dumbledore spent the entire evening in his office, tying up loose ends. He had an appointment at half-eight, but otherwise, felt much as he imagined Father Christmas did at the end of each successful Christmas Eve. There was still work to be done, but everything was right in the world for that moment.

A steady and deep knocking sound reverberated through the office, and Dumbledore rose to see his visitor.

“Ingenious,” Dumbledore said, seemingly talking to himself as a large and rather scruffy black dog entered his office. Dumbledore flicked his wand through the air, casting a spell, and emitted a rather pleased ‘hmm’ at the result. “You show no signs of being human.”

“That was the plan,” the dog said, transforming back into a man. “The dementors had no idea. Though I think I spooked Harry, the first time he saw me.”

Dumbledore paused by his desk, giving Sirius a curious look. He remembered Severus’s report nearly a year and a half earlier, and the mention of a giant black dog that Harry had been defending himself against. Dumbledore gave a soft smile, deciding to very much keep to himself the fact that Sirius may have been the catalyst for Harry’s training with Severus. 

“Ah, yes. Harry,” Dumbledore said. “I assume you’ve seen the news, and the reports about Barty Crouch?”

Dumbledore sat down as Sirius settled in the visitor’s chair in front of the desk, and watched Sirius fiddle with his rings as he crossed his legs.

“Arrested for impersonating Alastor Moody, and attempting to throw the tournament? Yes, I read that rubbish. What’s really happening?”

Dumbledore beamed. “Quite impressed that despite all efforts of the dementors, you have retained your full faculties.”

Sirius gave him a slightly dubious look, but Dumbledore ignored it and continued.

“It is partially correct, though I doubt Barty Crouch Jr had any interest in the politics of the tournament. His goal was to portkey Harry to a remote location, where Peter Pettigrew and Voldemort were waiting.”

“Junior?” Sirius asked, his expression showing surprise. “Seems I wasn’t the only one to slip out of Azkaban.”

“Certainly not,” Dumbledore agreed.

“Why was this miss-reported?” Sirius pressed. “Harry’s still here, and he’s safe, isn’t he?”

Dumbledore raised his wand and brought the pensieve over from the cabinet.

“Harry is here, now, but Pettigrew did manage to both capture him and bring him to Voldemort,” Dumbledore quietly informed him.

Sirius’s leg dropped to the floor with a loud clunk, and he leaned forward. “Is he all right? Where is he? _What did that rat do?”_

Dumbledore held up his hand to stop Sirius long enough so the man could take a breath.

“I need you to listen very closely to this, Sirius, and then you must promise to never speak of it in public, or to anyone that doesn’t already know,” Dumbledore said, his tone very serious.

“What aren’t you telli–”

“Your word, Sirius, or I will have you make an unbreakable vow to keep your silence,” Dumbledore interrupted.

“I promise,” Sirius grumbled. “Just tell me he’s all right.”

“He’s as fine as he can be, given the circumstances,” Dumbledore placated. “He was abducted, taken to Voldemort, and held captive as Voldemort was brought back to his fully corporeal form, using a potion that required Harry’s blood to work.”

Dumbledore was delivering the facts as if it were a simple news report, purposefully keeping his own sentiments subdued, lest he cause Sirius to fly out of the room in search of Harry.

“Jesus,” Sirius exhaled. “So he’s back.”

“The potion worked,” Dumbledore confirmed.

Sirius jumped up from the chair and turned for the door, pausing, and then turning back to look at Dumbledore.

“What do we do? Harry isn’t safe, not if You Know Who is out there.”

Dumbledore allowed a small smile to form as he gestured back to the chair.

“Voldemort is dead. The potion worked as intended, and killed him shortly after his revival. Harry has been training with Severus Snape for the past year, and it was him that managed to kill Voldemort for good.”

Sirius stared at the Headmaster for a solid minute.

“I must say,” Dumbledore commented, “I’ve never once seen you speechless in regards to Severus.”

“Snape? He…he hates Harry,” Sirius said, shaking his head slightly.

Dumbledore sighed. “Not always true, though it certainly appeared that way. But Sirius, even if he disliked Harry so much, do you honestly believe he’d stand aside and let a student be murdered?”

Sirius inhaled sharply.

“I was a teenager,” Sirius began, the words forcing their way past his clenched teeth.

“That is in the past,” Dumbledore agreed, cutting Sirius off. “And so is this. Severus helped Harry, in ways that even I couldn’t, and together they have defeated Voldemort.”

Sirius held his head in his hand, his thumb rubbing along his eyebrow.

“How do you know? How can you be sure that this time it’s for good?”

A large book fell onto Dumbledore’s desk, scattering dust as it fell and making Sirius flinch.

“I believe the Black family library likely had a book on the topic, but, I doubt it was something you interested yourself in as a child,” Dumbledore began, flipping pages. “He used something called a horcrux, to survive this long.”

What little colour was left in Sirius’s face drained quite quickly, and with a shaky hand, Sirius withdrew a small flask from his jacket pocket. Dumbledore watched him, silently, and waited as Sirius unscrewed the cap.

“If you are about to explain that these horcrux things needed to be destroyed for You Know Who to die,” Sirius said, taking a swig, “then it would appear that I owe my brother a drink of remembrance.”

“He knew of them?” Dumbledore asked, waiting as Sirius finished his drink.

“He went off to find one, and I never saw him again. We were all a bit mad then, and I didn’t…I couldn’t take the attention away from Lily and James to see what he was talking about.”

Dumbledore nodded.

“That was a very dark time. Your brother may have tried, but unfortunately, none of us had the proper weapon to defeat it. Not then,” Dumbledore said. He opened the drawer of his desk and withdrew the diary.

“This was a horcrux. It was destroyed with a Basilisk fang, by Harry, in his second year at school.”

“He’s got James’s luck,” Sirius said, smiling wistfully. “James was always getting out of tight squeezes.”

“Ah yes, the infamous Marauders,” Dumbledore said, his eyes bright and happy. “Harry does have good instincts, and they have served him well. As does Severus. He was the one to create a potion to alter Voldemort’s regenerated body, and to use a Basilisk bone to do it. As a result, these horcruxes, the ones that are left undestroyed, do not recognize their master.”

“They’re…broken?” Sirius asked, leaning forward and staring curiously at the diary.

“Essentially, yes.”

Dumbledore lifted something else out of the drawer, a small amber locket with a snake on it.

“This one is still, shall we say, active. If you place your hand near it, you’ll feel the negative energy,” Dumbledore said, placing it on the desk. Sirius put his hand forward and his fingers twitched unhappily the closer they got to the locket.

“But Voldemort can’t use it to bring himself back?”

“No,” Dumbledore said, staring at the locket once more as he returned held it up to the light. “It seems that Severus did enough to ensure that Voldemort’s regeneration changed him so much that his own horcruxes didn’t recognise his body when he died for the last time.”

Sirius looked more than a little disturbed at the mental image Dumbledore’s description brought up.

“So what are these now, then?” Sirius asked, gesturing toward the locket and the diary.

“Lost pieces, locked in containers, without any sort of map or starting point,” Dumbledore explained. “The last parts of war for me to destroy.”

“And I assume those won’t ever be mentioned in the papers?” Sirius said.

“No,” Dumbledore immediately answered. “Certainly not.”

Sirius nodded. “And I suppose I'm still on the run?”

“Only for two more weeks,” Dumbledore contentedly said. “You'll be happy to hear that Cornelius and I have come to an agreement regarding your exit from Azkaban.”

Sirius only half listened as Dumbledore explained though, as his mind was still replaying the tale of the graveyard and Voldemort’s last moments.

“And Remus will return as well,” Dumbledore finished, his eyes twinkling at Sirius.

“Remus?” Sirius said, blinking rapidly. “Remus is here?”

“Not yet,” Dumbledore softly said. Sirius shifted with a bit of embarrassment as he realised that Dumbledore was well aware that he'd not been paying full attention. “But it would seem I am in need of another Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor, and as I have promised to never run for office, the Minister has personally appointed him.”

“Remus Lupin, tenured professor,” Sirius said, smiling as he thought of his old friend.

“Yes, I do believe it is time that he had a steady profession,” Dumbledore agreed. “He’ll be here tomorrow morning if you wish to speak to him about perhaps standing in, once in a blue moon or so.”

“Very funny,” Sirius said, giving Dumbledore a mock disappointed look. “Though I shall be here, as I can speak to Harry as well.”

“Tread carefully, Sirius,” Dumbledore lightly warned. “Harry is a forgiving boy, but he won’t tolerate blatant insults toward his friends and mentors. I ask that you leave your childhood grudges to yourself.”

“I will if Snape will,” Sirius growled, standing up and moving for the door.

“I think you’ll be surprised,” Dumbledore said, nodding as Sirius gave a small bow and left the office.

….

Snape sat at his desk, methodically re-inking his quill as he marked papers. He felt quintessentially wizardly when he corrected papers, as he sat wrapped up in his dark old-fashioned robes, in a dungeon, marking by the light of candles with mahogany red ink and a pheasant quill. He was very far away from his quirky half-wizard, half-muggle house in Lower Tarrow, but he still felt completely comfortable.

That was, until anyone dared enter his office. Snape gritted his teeth as the heavy wooden door banged against the stone wall.

“Lucius Malfoy. I have been quite expecting you,” Snape said, not bothering to look up from the essay he was writing as Malfoy entered.

“Have you?” Malfoy asked, tapping his cane on the floor. “Something to confess? We _all_ noticed the tattoo change, Severus.”

Snape did look up then, with a cutting glaze.

“No, regarding your son’s reprehensible grades. I had assumed that was rather high on your list of topics to discuss.”

Malfoy’s lip twitched rather strongly.

“I did not come to speak of Draco,” Malfoy hissed. He slashed his cane toward the heavy wooden door of Snape’s office, which slammed shut seconds later. “What have you done?” Malfoy demanded.

Snape sat back in his chair, quill returned to the inkpot, as he looked at the pale arm that Malfoy presented. The Dark Mark was still there, but it was very faded and had lost all the fine detail, to the point that part of the tattoo was almost unrecognisable.

“It would appear from the Mark’s disintegration that the Dark Lord is finally dead,” Snape said, not answering Malfoy’s question.

“Yes it would, wouldn’t it?” Malfoy snapped. He began to pace on the stone floor in front of Snape’s desk, and Snape watched with a bored look.

“After all these years, there was always the hope…”

“The hope for _what_?” Snape barked. “You want another war? Most of the Death Eaters have either grown old or gone mad. If there were a war now, you would lose.”

“You don’t know that,” Malfoy accused. “We’ll build an army, and the rightful families will be in charge once more.”

“Is that so?” Snape asked, standing up and letting his black robes settle around him. “Two half-bloods defeated the Dark Lord. What chance do you stand?”

Malfoy stopped pacing, and an ugly smile took over his face. “It _was_ you.”

“Yes,” Snape said, smiling back. “And the Ministry is fully aware, having seen the body. You have riches and influence now, Lucius, but if you dare try to resurrect the Death Eaters again, the Ministry won’t be fooled by your little _Imperius_ defence. And they won’t take mercy on either you, or your possessions.”

Malfoy exhaled heavily, smacking his cane down on the ground.

“Just like the Potter brat. Meddling in affairs of others,” Malfoy said. He pointed a thin, glove-covered finger at Snape. “Be smug now, Severus Snape, but there are many of us just waiting for the next uprising, and mark my words, it will come.”

With a dramatic swirl of his cape that not even Snape could usually manage, Malfoy stormed out of the office and down the hall. Snape watched the door slam again, staring at it for a moment before picking up the quill and returning to the essay he was marking. Lucius Malfoy usually was all puff and smoke, however, Snape would remind Harry to keep vigilant, regardless of the fact that Voldemort was now dead.

…..

Harry wasn’t entirely certain that meeting Sirius at the Three Broomsticks was the best idea, as it was rather public. Dumbledore had excused him from Transfiguration with a note of explanation though, and Harry found the pub rather quiet without the students there. He wasn’t alone, either, as Harry knew Snape was somewhere around, watching but not listening.

He thought back on class earlier that morning, which was Remus's first full class back at Hogwarts. According to the schedule they were to be working on beasts of the Greek Isles, but Professor Lupin had declared it a task day, and set up a small obstacle course in the defence class to test the students to see how well they'd fare as a Triwizard champion.

Most of the class had done fairly well, but Harry had let himself get attacked by Hermione-the-pretend-banshee, and died a very dramatic death. Lupin had been amused, and had awarded points for creativity.

Five minutes before their scheduled meeting time, the door opened and a well-dressed gentleman entered, with a rather large hooded robe on. He circled the pub, before approaching Harry’s booth and sitting down.

“Good to see you’re okay,” Sirius said, lifting his hood up and back off his head. His hair had been washed and cut short, his beard shaved off, save for two day’s stubble, and he had a healthy flush to his cheeks. Some how Sirius had managed to look completely different from the Wanted posters that were faded on the wall.

“Been a long week,” Harry replied, genuinely happy to see the man. He had a mug of butterbeer, and waited while Sirius raised his hand for a drink from the bar. Harry then watched as Sirius unfolded a yellowed piece of paper, with soft edges as if it had been consistently kept close in a pocket. With slightly widened eyes, Harry recognized the letter that he’d written Sirius weeks ago, asking him not to disrupt things.

“So what’s the full story, kiddo?” Sirius asked, pulling out some coins to give to the bored looking house-elf that delivered his beer.

Harry stared down at the letter, his mind shifting and unwilling to pick a good place to start explaining things.

“What do you know of what happened?” Harry asked instead, falling back on the technique he’d seen Snape use. Figure out how much information the other person had first, before blabbing.

“Dumbledore told me about what happened with You Know Who,” Sirius said, on a deep exhale. “Explained that Snape saved you.”

Harry nodded.

“Didn’t say anything else, nothing about who you’re living with, though I expect it was him that misplaced all my letters to the Ministry about it.”

“Probably,” Harry carefully said. If Sirius knew that Snape had saved Harry (and killed Voldemort), then maybe Harry could use that as a way to show Sirius that Snape was a good guardian.

“More than probably,” Sirius muttered. “When we were kids he moved mountains so James and I wouldn’t get in trouble for the prank with Remus…it’s a bit frustrating being on the other side of that.”

“Yeah, it is,” Harry distractedly said, remembering the faces of the Slytherin students in first year, when Dumbledore had awarded Gryffindor the house cup with one fell swoop of last minute points.

“It’s Snape, isn’t it?” Sirius bitterly asked, sipping his drink.

Harry’s eyes widened, caught between admitting yes, and wondering if he should delay a bit longer to show Sirius why he’d chosen correctly.

“You wouldn’t be this secretive if it wasn’t,” Sirius pointed out, shaking his head and cupping his hand around his drink. “Severus Snape.”

“He’s a good man,” Harry quietly said, echoing what his father had told him. “He made a promise to keep me safe, and he did. Not even Dumbledore was all that worried about Voldemort coming back, but Snape spent a year and a half training me, because he knew this would happen. He knew Voldemort wouldn’t give up.”

“I’m sure he did,” Sirius moodily said. “As close to You Know Who as that snake was, he’d know.”

“Sirius,” Harry warned, clutching his butterbeer. “He’s not a Death Eater any more. And he does, you know, care about me.”

“So do I, Harry,” Sirius countered, banging his mug on the table. “And I’m your godfather, as _chosen_ by your parents.”

“Yeah, I know you were,” Harry said, his voice harsh with frustration. “But you weren’t _there_. Both Dad and Mum were fine with Snape being my guardian, and Dad said to tell you as well that your shoulders weren’t big enough. Whatever that means.”

Harry refused to look up, as he felt angry and more than a little insulted that Sirius seemed to be trying to make him feel guilty.

“How did he tell you that?” Sirius asked, his tone heavy with confusion.

“When I died in the graveyard, I saw them,” Harry muttered, looking around for a serviette. He sniffled a bit, but was relieved to hear that it sounded like he just had a bit of congestion, not like he was upset.

“You died? The Headma…he never said you died!” Sirius barked, reaching out and grabbing Harry’s hand, as if to check and see that Harry really was alive.

Harry blinked a few times, and nearly laughed.

“He told you that Voldemort had returned, and that we’d killed him, but forgot to tell you that I was dead for a minute. Great,” Harry said, shaking his head. This was not how he’d planned the conversation to go.

“Unbelievable,” Sirius softly said, letting go of Harry’s hand.

“What does the shoulders thing mean?” Harry asked, changing the topic slightly. Sirius gave him a sad smile.

“My family, the Blacks, are one of the old pure blood families,” Sirius started.

“Like the Malfoys?” Harry questioned.

“Bit less twisted,” Sirius said, nodding. “But my mother, she had very grandiose ideas of what my brother and I should become, and your dad…when I was angry and overwhelmed, he used to remind me that my shoulders weren’t big enough to carry the world, never mind my mother’s demands.”

Harry smiled. “He also said you’d be fine, if you stuck with Remus.”

Sirius glanced down at his beer before taking another long drink. “That is something James would say.”

Harry, without anything else to add, drank the last of his butterbeer.

“So you’re staying with him?” Sirius asked, and Harry winced at the hurt tone in Sirius’s voice.

“He’s been my legal guardian for a year, and I don’t want to change it, no,” Harry carefully answered. “But I was telling the truth in that letter. I want you to still be my cool godfather.”

Sirius nodded, before standing up. “Final task’s in a week?”

“Uh, yes,” Harry confirmed, startled by the swift change Sirius’s body language.

“Right, I’ll see you then,” Sirius muttered, throwing the hood back over his head and stepping away from the table.

Harry stayed were he was, bewildered and more than a little stung that Sirius had just up and left. Before he could try to logically process what had happened, Sirius turned back and looked straight at him.

“I don’t like Snape. Never have. But I haven’t been around for nearly fourteen years, so maybe I’m wrong. I need time to decide.”

“Yeah, all right,” Harry agreed, keeping his tone calm and uninterested, as if he was completely fine with that and not at all hurt that Sirius didn’t trust him.

“I’ll be there at the tournament,” Sirius promised, smiling quickly at Harry, before he left the pub. Harry didn’t look up to wave goodbye, but instead, stared into the bottom of his butterbeer glass, where remnants of cream stuck to the sides. It was an odd pattern that didn’t make any more sense to Harry than tealeaves in his divinations cups.

“I suppose I should be grateful that he’s even taking time to think,” Snape said, sitting down in the booth a moment later.

Harry, who’d only seen him coming out of the corner of his eye, gave Snape a look that he hoped conveyed his reluctance to talk about Sirius.

“I thought you weren’t going to listen,” Harry finally muttered.

Snape said nothing more, merely studying Harry, before he knocked on the table.

“Let’s go,” Snape announced, “I have some credit at Honeydukes I need to use, before it expires.”

…..

Harry remained at the Gryffindor table as his friends left to go write their exams, wondering what he'd do with his free time. McGonagall had mentioned that the champion's families were visiting before the final task, but Harry knew that Snape hadn't yet decided to tell anyone about the guardianship, and he very much doubted Sirius would show up. He did, however, have a little laugh to himself at the amusing idea of the _Dursleys_ coming to Hogwarts.

“Potter!” McGonagall said, from the side room behind the teacher's table. “Sometime this century, if you'd care to join us.”

Harry gave her a blank look, but shrugged and got up from the table. Once he passed through the door, he saw Victor Krum chatting to his parents in rapid fire Bulgarian, Fleur Delacour speaking in poetic French to her parents, and Cedric's father, Amos, giving his son a pep talk. At the far side of the room were two more people, one dressed in severe black, and one wearing a happy quilt of colours.

“There he is!” Mrs Weasley smiled, standing up to give Harry a hug. “All ready for the last hurrah?”

“Hope so,” Harry said, smiling. He looked at Snape, who was watching him with an expression that almost looked like pride.

“Going to watch me compete, sir?” Harry cheekily asked, unsure if Snape was there only as a Professor and not, as Harry hoped, his parent.

“I'm told I'd be a terrible father if I didn't,” Snape dryly said. Harry grinned.

“Yes, you would,” Mrs Weasley huffed. “Now Harry, how about a tour around the school?”

“All right,” Harry easily agreed, wondering how Mrs Weasley had found out about the guardianship. Snape merely cocked an eyebrow when Harry stared at him though, so Harry figured he'd have to actually ask.

“So, you know...” Harry started, as they left through the Great Hall.

“Oh yes, dear,” Mrs Weasley said. “And I've already given permission for Ron to visit at your new home.”

“Great,” Harry happily agreed. He pretended to lose a bit of balance, and bump into Snape, the smile still on his face.

Snape put his hand on Harry's shoulder, as if to steer him back on course, but left it there for a few minutes.

“Oh, the old clock tower,” Mrs Weasley wistfully said. “Gorgeous place to be at midnight.”

Snape smirked. “Lost a few house points as a student?”

She gave him a sly look in return. “Only a few.”

“I see,” Snape continued, squeezing Harry's shoulder. “So _you_ are the responsible party for those troublesome twins.”

Harry laughed again, feeling relaxed and content as they passed through the front door of Hogwarts and out to the grounds. It was warm and eerily empty, as most students were still writing exams.

“Oh, well,” Mrs Weasley chuckled. “Neither Arthur nor I were perfect students, but Fred and George got the best of both of us, I should think. We’ve paid for it, I promise you.”

“I have often wondered why the Sorting Hat would not do us all a favour and separate those two,” Snape mused, as he watched Hagrid's latest creature acquisition romp around in a makeshift pen.

“Those two in separate houses?” Mrs Weasley scoffed. “I can’t keep them apart for ten minutes. Heaven knows what they’ll do when they get married.”

“Indeed,” Snape hummed. “They are not invited to my home, just to be clear.”

Mrs Weasley smiled.

“Of course. Now Harry, are you all ready for the final task?”

“Hope so,” Harry honestly said, walking with them toward the green houses. “I've practiced loads, and I’ve learned a bunch of new spells, so I hope I'll do well.”

“That's the idea. Do your best, and see what comes,” Mrs Weasley said, patting his shoulder. She glanced up toward the tower, and (to Harry's astonishment), caught a flash of bright red hair. Harry wasn't surprised that she'd recognized the hair, but rather that she knew in a second what was happening.

“FRED! GEORGE! YOU LEAVE YOUR BROTHER ALONE!”

She turned to look at Snape and Harry, giving them a frustrated look.

“I'll see you at the task, dear, I have to sort this out,” she said, before turning and stalking off.

“I’ve never realised how scary she sometimes is,” Harry said, watching Mrs Weasley go. In the window above the greenhouses Harry could see George, Fred, and Ron looking down. Only two of the three looked guilty.

“Or how loud,” Snape muttered. He kicked Harry's foot, gently, and they continued walking down the path that lead to the Forbidden Forest.

“Would you be angry if I didn't win the tournament?” Harry asked, taking his glasses off and putting them in his robe pocket.

“Planning on forfeiting?” Snape asked. “After your extra training?”

“No,” Harry immediately replied, watching some birds soar over the forest. “It's just...we beat Voldemort right? And there's still this tournament, and I'm going to try, but you know how they say 'go big or go home?'”

“Whoever 'they' are, yes,” Snape answered, leaning down to pluck some weeds from the ground. Harry was rather proud that he recognized them as some sort of potion ingredient.

“Well, I'm looking forward to just going home.”

“And what is home, now?” Snape asked, his tone light, but his words causing Harry to flash back nearly a year earlier, when he'd had the same conversation with Snape after Sirius had offered his home to Harry.

“Lower Tarrow,” Harry easily answered. “And Hogwarts, of course.”

“Of course,” Snape agreed, shoving some weeds toward Harry. “Hold these, if you're not doing anything useful.”

“Useful? We're at the edge of the forest, it's not like there's not any hoovering to do,” Harry commented, holding onto the weeds anyway.

“Your sarcasm is noted and not appreciated,” Snape replied, ripping out a particularly dirty weed and tossing it, dirt and all, toward Harry.

“Were you serious about Ron though?” Harry asked, side stepping the weed and letting it sail to the ground behind him. “He can stay over this summer?”

“Pick that up,” Snape ordered, though he still was crouched over and hadn't even seen that Harry hadn't caught it. “And yes. I assume you'll want to do the normal stay over things with your friends.”

“I don't really know what those are,” Harry bluntly said.

“Pizza, noise, and games, I believe,” Snape answered, yanking up another weed. “You'll be cleaning before and after your friends arrive.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed. “Sounds like the time I spent at the Burrow, after they broke me out at the Dursleys. I can do that.”

Snape straightened, clutching several different types of weeds, and in one hand, an ugly looking pod that had a bunch of seeds in it.

“I doubt your friends will judge you on whether you host a proper slumber party or not,” Snape told him, rolling his eyes. He transfigured a large plant leaf into a canvas bag, and gave it to Harry to dump all the weeds into.

“Speaking of my friends, actually,” Harry started, following Snape as they stepped into the forest. “You told Mrs Weasley already, but, well. Can I?”

Snape didn't pause to look at him, but instead continued on the path.

“On what planet does that sentence make sense?” Snape asked.

Harry stuck his tongue out at Snape's back as they approached a birch tree.

“Can I tell people you're my guardian now?” Harry asked, very slowly and overly enunciating the words.

“Yeeeeesssssss,” Snape responded equally as slow, snapping a vine off the tree branch. “But you will continue to call me Professor at Hogwarts, outside of our quarters.”

“Oh, right,” Harry said, holding the bag out for the vine. “I, well, yeah. I hadn't planned on calling you Dad in potions class.”

“Good,” Snape said, closing up the bag. “The Dark Lord may be gone, but there are others about who would not benefit from a constant reminder that I am your caretaker.”

“Caretaker?” Harry echoed, following Snape to another part of the forest. “You make me sound like I've been sectioned or something.”

“Or something,” Snape dryly repeated, kicking aside a clump of dirt on the path. “I had a surprise visit from Lucius Malfoy earlier. He is dim enough to attempt revenge, but I don't think he will. In either case, your tattoo warning signal is permanent, and I expect you to continue using it in case of emergency.”

“Okay, Dad,” Harry cheekily agreed. Snape opened his mouth to say something, but Harry interrupted first.

“You didn't say anything about the Forbidden Forest,” Harry grinned.

Snape rolled his eyes and flung the bag at Harry.

“Go pick some nettles,” Snape ordered, pointing toward a fairly large bush just off the path.

Harry stomped off in a protest of noise, as he was quite sure that Snape knew Harry didn't have any gloves to pick the _stinging_ nettles up with.

 

…..

At the bang of the gun for the third task, Harry entered the maze feeling giddy and energetic. He didn't care if he won, and he was only slightly worried that something in the maze was out to get him–something other than the planned traps and diversions. Sirius had been in the stands and Snape had been at the starting line, standing down with the parents of the other champions, which had confused most people in the stands. Snape's bored look (and refusal to explain why he was there) had Harry ridiculously amused.

Mazes weren't really his forte, but Harry calmly jogged through this one, taking his time to watch for traps within the deep box hedges. Harry recognized it as English Yew, and remembered from Herbology that the berries were quite poisonous.

He lit his wand with a _lumos_ spell, as the shrubs and maze were both very dark and very silent. He couldn't hear the crowds of students yelling, but he could hear someone nearby battling with something.

Harry wandered further into the maze, keeping his wand pointing north, as he figured that the centre of the maze was somewhere north west of where they'd started from. The first creature he encountered was a large jewel-encrusted crab, which he considered just taking a running jump over before he saw the crab raise itself on its hind legs.

“Right,” Harry muttered, staring at the jewelled crab. Making a decision, he pulled out his wand and conjured his patronus, sending it galloping into the hedge. The crab, happy to spot even shinier target, scuttled full force into the hedge.

Harry managed to get past two more obstacles, before tripping into Fleur as he rounded another corner. His spectacles went flying, and Fleur laughed as she took off running again. Harry didn't bother searching for his glasses in the dark underbrush of the hedges, knowing he could see without them, and instinctively feeling that he was close to the centre.

He was right, as it turned out. Behind the next corner revealed a giant sphinx, looking both very calm and deadly as it peered down at Harry.

“The fastest way is through me,” the sphinx told him. “But you must first answer a riddle.”

Harry scrunched his face up at that, as Hermione had always been the better of the three of them to figure out riddles. But he was so close, and surely the sphinx would let him listen to the riddle first, before he decided if he wanted to answer it or not.

“You're the hobbit,” Harry told himself. “This is Gollum, and this is a game of riddles, and you are a _smart_ hobbit.”

He looked up at the serene face of the sphinx and nodded, ready to hear the clues.

The sphinx spoke slowly, and was kind enough to repeat the clues as Harry muttered to himself, tumbling over the words and working out each individual line. By the time Harry had worked out the riddle, Cedric had turned down the hedge row and was closing in on him.

Harry darted past the sphinx, exhilarated at the chase, and honed in on the bright cup waiting for him. Cedric ran straight for it as well, and they were both so focused on the cup that neither noticed the giant spider until it was upon them. Harry had a split second to make his decision, whether he should dive for the cup, or stay to fight the spider. One of them could maybe slip by, but not both.

Cedric was white with panic, as he'd probably never seen a spider that large, but Harry definitely had.

“Friend of Aragog! FRIEND OF HAGRID!” Harry bellowed, raising his arms in the air to catch the spider's attention.

Both Cedric and the spider froze, giving Harry enough time to grab Cedric's shirt and drag them both to the other side of the clearing. The spider clacked its pincers, unsure of what to do, and Harry gave a scared, triumphant laugh that he was right. It _was_ one of Aragog's acromantula family.

“Stupefy on three,” Cedric whispered, but Harry shook his head. He remembered how bloodthirsty the spiders had been in second year, and was rather grateful that this one was nice enough not to eat them on sight.

“Just block the path,” Harry said, firing _reducto_ curses at the hedge. Within seconds they'd blocked it, and were left staring at the blue glowing cup.

“So which one of us gets it?” Cedric asked, his arms twitching, as he was clearly ready to run if Harry showed even a hint of dashing for it.

“I solved the riddle,” Harry said, panting. “And I stopped the spider, right?”

Cedric was silent for a second, glancing back at the blockage they'd made. The spider wasn't breaking through though, and the eerie quiet of the maze had descended again.

“Yes,” he gritted out.

“So I won,” Harry concluded, scratching his arm where a thorny branch had got him earlier.

“Not yet,” Cedric countered, quite unhappily. He still seemed to be judging the distance, and predicting whether Harry's shorter legs could actually beat him in a race. But he hadn't run yet. “But I suppose.”

“The cup's yours then,” Harry told him, standing up straight and relaxing his arms against his sides. “I don't want it.”

Cedric almost dropped his wand. “What?”

“Your dad wants you to win, and you'll be famous. A famous Hufflepuff. Do it,” Harry urged.

“I..but...your parents would want you to...” Cedric said, taking a step forward toward the cup, despite his feeble protest.

“My dad just wants me to not kill myself,” Harry grinned. “Take the bloody cup. But between the two of us, I won.”

“Yeah,” Cedric grinned. “You did.”

And he took off in a run, swiping the heavy trophy off the pedestal and nearly dropping it in surprise at the fireworks that exploded over the maze once the cup was taken.

….

“See you later Sean!” Harry yelled, nearly walking into the front door as he swung it open at the last moment.

“Yeah, on the weekend, Johnny!” came a fading yell from up on the bridge in front of the house.

It took Harry a minute for his eyes to adjust from the bright summer light to the cooler indoor dim of the Lower Tarrow house, and thus he didn't notice that the sitting room was, for once, occupied. Harry kicked off his shoes quickly and proceeded onto his room, where he dropped several Super Nintendo games on the bed. Sean had quite the collection, and they'd traded a few between themselves for the summer. Harry couldn't wait to teach Ron how to play, though he was determined to teach Ron before Hermione, because he knew from years of experience at school that Ron and Hermione learning the same thing together often ended with one of them storming off.

He glanced at the games again with a grin, wondering which one to play first. Lifting up his shirt, Harry scrunched his face up at the smell, and decided to change it before Snape harped on him again. He and Sean had run into Richard the Twat Brook again, and in response to Brook's mocking commentary about them, a surprise and rather strong gust of wind had blown by and absolutely covered Brook's expensive clothing with dirt. Brook blamed Harry and Sean for the malicious act of nature for some reason, and the ensuing chase had been both fun and sweaty in the summer heat.

Harry had just pulled a new shirt down over his head and closed the cupboard door when he turned and came face to face with the small black end of Snape's wand.

“ _Protego_!” Harry yelped, wandless and still managing to conjure a fairly sturdy personal shield.

“Ten points for not noticing we have visitors,” Snape informed him, keeping his wand steadily aimed inches from Harry’s face.

“We do?” Harry asked, dropping his shield in surprise. He pushed aside Snape's wand, not noticing the irritated look he received in return, and stuck his head out the door. Sure enough, Harry could hear quiet conversation in the sitting room.

Who on Earth would be visiting them? Snape didn't even let Dumbledore know where the house was.

Behind Harry, though he couldn't see it, Snape rolled his eyes before pushing him out into the hallway.

“Don't tell me you're afraid of strangers,” Snape said, following behind Harry so Harry had no choice but to go forward.

“It'd be a healthy fear,” Harry muttered. When he got to the edge of the sitting room, Harry's eyes quickly swept over the couch and to the small armchair, his body relaxing when he saw whom it was. Snape's mum was sitting on the couch, wearing a simple dress and sifting through a scrapbook photo album. There was an older gentleman sitting in the armchair, who Harry assumed to be Snape's dad. The man had the same severe black hair and distinctive nose as Snape, as well as the giant ears that all older English men seemed to get.

“You must be Harry Potter then,” the man said, giving Harry a steely look. There were two canes resting against the arm of the chair, and Harry guessed that while this man might be physically weak, he wasn't mentally.

“Yes, sir,” Harry said, coming into the room and sitting on the other edge of the couch.

“Don't spook the lad, Toby,” Snape's mum warned, not even looking at her husband as she read an article in the scrapbook she was holding. Harry glanced down for a second and was surprised to see a picture of himself, taken just after the first task of the Triwizard tournament.

“What’s the thirteenth element on the periodic table?” Snape's dad asked.

Harry's eyes glanced briefly up as he counted in his head.

“Aluminium, sir,” Harry answered.

“My father, the chemist,” Snape said, settling into a chair as his father gave Harry an approving nod.

“What are your plans for after school?” Mr Snape continued, ignoring his son.

“Uh,” Harry said, glancing to Snape. The man was no help however, as he sat passively with an amused look on his face and said nothing.

“Strange things have been happening and I was a bit focused on not dying, so, I don’t really know. I thought maybe I could write, not a biography, but a little book of adventures.”

Harry looked back at Snape and was relieved to see that Snape thought it a worthwhile idea.

“You have encountered dragons,” Snape quietly mused. “Not many manage that these days.”

“Gobstones too tame for ya?” Mrs Snape asked, still flipping through the book. Harry scolded himself, as he’d temporarily forgotten that Snape’s mum was actually a witch.

“I’m not really good at playing gobstones,” Harry admitted, remembering his messy failed attempts at playing against the Weasleys.

“She’ll teach you all right. You can call me Granddad,” Mr Snape proclaimed, tapping his chest. He shifted slowly in the chair, his hands picking up the material of his trousers in order to move his legs where he wanted them. “And she'll be Gran.”

“Okay,” Harry readily agreed, feeling like he’d been officially accepted. Aunt Petunia had never spoken of her parents, and Harry hadn't even thought about getting more than just Snape as family when he'd asked for guardianship.

“And if he gives you any trouble,” Mr Snape continued, shaking a calloused but strong finger at Snape, “we'll set him straight.”

“Trouble?” Snape sarcastically replied. “Compared to this boy, I was an angel growing up.”

Mrs Snape snorted.

“Angels aren't just from heaven,” she replied.

Mr Snape smirked with a very familiar sly smile, Harry thought.

“Welcome to the family, boy.”

Harry grinned back, thinking that for once, he didn’t mind the term ‘boy’ at all. He wondered, fleetingly, if Snape had ever expected Harry to become his son when he’d offered to teach Harry defence lessons two summer earlier, but then decided that was a question he could ask some rainy day years from now.

 

Fin.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And after 17 weeks and 140 000+ words, this is where it ends. I want to thank all of you wonderful people for reading along on this adventure. It's been a pleasure, and thank you all for the notes as well. I really appreciate them, every single one.


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